


Critical Feline Mass

by Kryptaria, rayvanfox



Series: Two Harleys and a Pickup [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adjusting to civilian life is hard for any military veteran — especially for one ex-sniper with a cybernetic arm, a classic Harley, and friends who keep trying to ‘help.’ When Sam Wilson at the VA sends Sergeant Barnes to rent a room from the hottest guy in the DC area, Bucky thinks maybe civilian life is worth it after all. And then he finds out Captain Rogers is everything Bucky’s not: a real hero, a Medal of Honor recipient, and an all-around nice guy. Bucky doesn’t have a chance in hell with him.</p><p>Sam was a huge help to Steve Rogers when he left the military. In the spirit of ‘pay it forward,’ Steve decides to rent out his basement room to a vet in need. But when Sergeant Barnes shows up on his doorstep, he knows he’s in for a world of trouble. Barnes is exactly what Steve never knew he wanted, from his bedroom eyes to his wicked innuendos. And he’s Steve’s tenant.</p><p>A love story in twelve chapters, including two Harley-Davidsons, a guardian angel, multiple snipers, the only woman who can scare them into behaving themselves, spontaneous kittens, and one attacking sheep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Critical Feline Mass (猫咪临界值)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833457) by [dolcega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolcega/pseuds/dolcega)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Критическая масса кошачьих](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877257) by [faith_fatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faith_fatal/pseuds/faith_fatal)
  * Translation into Polski available: [Krytyczna Masa Kota](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773078) by [erraticmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticmuse/pseuds/erraticmuse)



> Written by rayvanfox (zooeyscigar) and Kryptaria in the drift, using just one shared brain. Betaed by the absolutely wonderful stephrc79 and zephyrfox. Thanks also to scriptrixlatinae for her witty, insightful, rib-cracking comments. Seriously, guys. We need a director's cut with her snarky feedback, it's so awesome. And extra-special thanks to medievaldreamer and husband for answering questions regarding the Medal of Honor. Thanks, guys!
> 
> Please read responsibly. Warning for mentions of Bucky in leather pants and Steve being adorable.
> 
> And follow us on Tumblr for updates and inspirational pics:  
> http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com  
> http://kryptaria.tumblr.com

Getting by on a medical pension plus disability isn’t easy in DC, but Major Sam Wilson at the VA is Sergeant Barnes’ guardian angel, and he has a plan for that. He’s got a plan for everything, Bucky’s learned. And he’s grateful for that, because he hasn’t lived as a civilian since 2001, and he hasn’t had to find an apartment for himself for almost a decade, when he’d last been Stateside for more than three months. His career had violated all sorts of regs once the CIA caught wind of him, and he’s been pretty much off the grid since.

Now that he’s back for good, he has no idea how to find housing off-base, much less how to handle all of the medical and outprocessing paperwork that’s piled up since he ended his last mission in a bloody, unconscious heap.

Sam shepherds Bucky through the torturous process of VA medical exams, as if the VA doesn’t notice the missing arm, and because the damage to Bucky’s shoulder keeps regular prosthetics from working right, he even gets Bucky into an experimental program at Johns Hopkins. The prosthetic they fit to Bucky’s shoulder hooks up to his spine and brain in ways that he doesn’t want to consider, but it’s not just a clumsy claw. He actually can feel pressure from force feedback circuits, and he’s got pretty good fine motor control.

One day over coffee, Sam suggests Bucky take up cross stitch to improve his dexterity. Bucky makes Sam pay for their refills.

Sam also gets Bucky onto a housing message board, and that might be the best thing Sam’s ever done — even better than the arm — because, right as the VA finally approves his disability and he gets his first check, covering eight months of back pay, he gets an email from Sam that directs him to one particular post. The ad is for a basement apartment in a house not too far outside DC. It’s got all the standard restrictions checked: no pets, no smoking, no live-in roommates, no parties, no excessive guests. Fortunately, Bucky’s social life consists of his old field partner, Clint Barton, and Barton’s new girlfriend, Natasha. Other than that, Bucky’s only bad habit is making bets at the firing range, where guys can never quite believe a trained sniper can hit the side of a barn with only one “real” arm.

Well, two bad habits. When he came back to the States, he’d arranged for his sister, Rebecca, to get his bike out of storage, tuned up, and shipped down from Brooklyn. Now, with his smartphone holstered to the gas tank as a GPS, he leaves the parking lot of his barracks-turned-apartment and drives off into a gorgeous October day. His leather jacket and gloves cover the hand, so this landlord, Captain Rogers (retired), won’t even look twice at Bucky’s robot arm.

The commute is thirty minutes without traffic, which means mornings might be a bitch, but Bucky can probably switch his physical therapy appointment to right after lunch. He doesn’t even need them, except his therapist and the receptionist are both hot, and he figures that doubles his chances that one of them will find him equally intriguing. He can’t help but wonder if Captain Rogers (retired) will mind him bringing home occasional company. Bucky’s already gone without for too long.

The house is old and narrow, with a tree in the yard that looks to date back at least fifty years. The grass is a little worn, but there isn’t a single fallen leaf, and no weeds visible anywhere. In fact, Bucky feels a little prickle of alarm at how _pristine_ the house is.

And then he notices the Harley. It’s a brand new Softail Breakout in the most gorgeous shade of midnight blue. He pulls his bike into the driveway beside the other one, and he can’t help but feel a little jealous that his old Harley might get a date before he will. He seriously considers petting this shiny new Harley himself, except he’s polite. Sort of. And if he walks a little too close, admiring the custom handlebars and the stitching on the seat, well, who can blame him?

He takes a flagstone path up to the front porch, where he stares in faint amazement at a porch swing. Who has a porch swing these days? It looks ancient, too, except the chains are new, and he suspects it’s due for a coat of paint any day, since the wood is freshly sanded in spots.

Since there isn’t a doorbell, he opens the screen door and knocks. And the hottest guy Bucky’s seen in about ten years opens the door.

There’s no way in hell this is Captain Rogers (retired). No one who looks like that _retires_ — not unless it’s to go into professional swimsuit modeling or something. He’s in paint-stained blue jeans and a white T-shirt that’s got drips of beige paint on the shoulders. It’s not a design, since it matches a couple of drops in his hair and on his hands. He’s in workboots covered with white dust, probably from drywall.

Bucky stares, and it takes him a full two seconds — long enough to kill someone over a mile away — before he says, “Uh.”

 _Brilliant, Barnes,_ he thinks, and he summons up his most charming smile. There’s not a chance in hell that this guy is gay, bi, or even _interested_ in someone like Bucky, but there’s no harm in trying. Worst case, the guy throws a punch, Bucky retaliates, and they go their separate ways.

“Hi. Is, uh, Captain Rogers here?”

 

~~~

 

Steve hadn’t expected anyone to respond to his post about the basement ‘apartment’ so quickly, but he _really_ wasn’t expecting the person to show up at his door to look so much like a rent boy, down to the thick eyelashes, sinful mouth, and leather jacket. Oh, and a classic Harley. This spells trouble. And here’s Steve, a complete mess from the last-minute remodeling. _Perfect._

“That’s me.” Steve finds his manners under the shock of staring at such beauty and reaches his hand out, only to realize how paint-spattered it is. “Oh, sorry, um. It’s dry.” While Mr. Eyelashes strips the leather glove from his right hand, Steve continues, “I take it you’re Sergeant Barnes?” He tries to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Yeah.” Barnes tips his head to the side and wraps his fingers around Steve’s hand. Warm from the glove, strong, nails cut neatly short. It’s a contrast to the hair that tumbles down around his face in a mess from his helmet. He has to have been out for a few months at least, with hair that long. Then he grins, and his blue eyes light up. _Danger._ “Sorry for showing up so quick. I’m in this shi—er, craphole of an apartment down by the VA, and I need out.”

“It must be pretty bad if you’re jumping at a basement apartment.” Steve steps back to let Barnes in. “I mean, this isn’t a ‘craphole’, but there’s not much in the way of natural light.” Best to not get this guy’s hopes up, because then Steve can keep himself from thinking about the pleasure of having such a beautiful housemate. Tenant. Something.

“Spent the last two and a half years without leave, sleeping on rocks in the desert, Cap,” Barnes says with an easy shrug. He unzips his jacket, revealing a faded Metallica T-shirt with half the print flaking off. The black fabric is worn so thin, Steve can almost see the skin underneath. He keeps the glove on his left hand, though, which is odd. “Usually in full body armor,” he adds, and those thick lashes sweep down as he checks Steve out. He probably thinks he’s being subtle, but he fails pretty badly.

“Call me Steve. Though funny enough, ‘Cap’ was my nickname over there.”

“Sure you wouldn’t rather I call you sir?” Barnes asks slyly as he passes Steve, looking around. Somewhere under the daze of Barnes’ innuendo, Steve manages to note the sharp way his eyes move. Exits. Windows. The staircase. The dark niche under the stairs. He’s still got that battlefield edge to him.

“Not necessary, soldier. The perimeter is secure, in case you’re wondering.” Barnes turns to look at him, and there’s understanding in those blue eyes. Maybe even appreciation. “I’m not sure how specific the posting on the message board was. Did it mention the first floor was common space?”

Barnes hums noncommittally. The living room is decorated in leftovers, rather than to any sort of interior design scheme. Steve’s always been more concerned with comfort than coordinating fabrics or expensive electronics. Barnes, all sharp edges and rough denim, doesn’t seem to mind.

Steve walks towards the back of the house, motioning for Barnes to follow. Barnes is light on his feet, despite his heavy boots; Steve can barely hear a whisper of denim and leather as they move through the house. What exactly had Barnes done in the Army?

“Living room and kitchen we share. There’s laundry in the back.” He waves towards the mudroom off the kitchen. “My room’s upstairs, and yours is down. We each have our own bath.” He points to the door to the basement. “After you.”

Barnes gives the air a quick sniff as he heads down. “You didn’t have to repaint just for me,” he says, shooting a look back over his shoulder as he takes the stairs two at a time. His mouth turns up higher at one corner than the other as he adds, “Cap,” and Steve’s never heard his informal rank come out so _filthy_ before.

Nor has he seen such a good view from behind since he was around soldiers 24/7. “Ah. Painting, not repainting. I just finished putting up walls last week, and the fixtures in the bathroom aren’t attached yet.”

“So, I’m your first?” Barnes says, and though it comes out innocent, Steve’s not fooled. Barnes’ blue eyes light up again, as he clarifies, “Tenant, I mean.”

Steve manages not to choke on the suggestive wording and is proud of himself for not giving Barnes a dressing down for insubordination. He hasn’t felt the military instinct this strongly in a long time, and he can’t tell if he likes it or not. He _can_ tell that there’s heat rising up his neck to his face.

_Stay professional, Rogers._

“Tenant, yes. I had a friend staying with me for a while, but decided to create a separate living space with all the room down here.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs, and Steve directs Barnes down the immaculate hallway, stinging their noses with a brand new paint job, to the door of the studio space. It runs the length of the house, but it’s only half the width. Steve had put a little more effort into furnishing it, with wall-to-wall carpet in neutral beige, a double bed at the far end near the bathroom, and a desk, couch, and a TV that’s only a couple years old closer to the door. All the furniture is pulled a foot away from the walls, and there are a couple of bits of masking tape still stuck to the ceiling.

He’d thought about putting up some of his better sketches to cover the bare walls, but the paint and trim had taken longer than he’d thought, so he hadn’t gotten around to it. Now, he’s glad. Barnes doesn’t seem the landscape type.

Not that Barnes seems too picky, either. He stalks the length of the room, peers into the bathroom, then deliberately flattens a hand on the bed and looks right at Steve as he presses down on the mattress. “Looks good to me,” he says, and that smile comes back, slow and devastating. “How much do you want?”

For a second, Steve’s mind goes blank. Then he comes up with a list. It takes a full three seconds for him to catch up and realize Barnes is talking about rent.

“Ah. First, last, security deposit?” Steve ventures a little awkwardly.

Barnes reaches into the leather jacket — and he’s still wearing a glove on his left hand, Steve notices. Casually walking back to Steve, Barnes opens the wallet and starts counting out hundreds. “Any papers to sign?” he asks, offering Steve about half the cash he’s carrying.

And though the jacket doesn’t gap open too much, Steve sees that cash isn’t all he’s carrying. Black civilian holster, black weapon, either a compact Glock or a SIG.

Steve hadn’t been expecting to close the deal today. He hadn’t really been ready to _show_ the place today — the paint’s not even dry. And the combination of that much cash and a concealed weapon throws him. Who is this guy? Hooker, drug dealer, or hitman. Steve takes a second to assess the threat and comes up with a big question mark. He hadn’t planned on a formal lease, but now legal documents sound like a very good idea, at least as a bluff.

“Yeah, sorry. I haven’t printed out the lease and background check form yet. Been a little busy making the space livable.” He smiles enough to look sheepish, he hopes. “Give me your address, and I can mail them to you?”

The light leaves Barnes’ eyes, and for an instant, Steve feels like he just kicked a puppy. Then a mask drops down, neutral and coolly polite. Barnes shoves the cash back into his wallet and switches it for a phone. Instead of holding it with his fingers and typing with both thumbs, he cradles it in his left hand and types right-handed.

“I’ll send it to your email. Same one as on the message board?” he offers, and it’s properly friendly, without a hint of interest.

“Um, yeah.” Steve watches Barnes poke rapidly on the screen with his right hand and feels like a heel. But he doesn’t know this guy from Adam. Just because Bucky’s in the service doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. Not yet, anyway.

Barnes raises his phone up and shows Steve the screen to confirm the email address, and the light catches on a glint of silver between his left sleeve and the glove. Steve’s eyebrows raise because whatever it is, it’s definitely not a bracelet. If anything, it’s a cuff of some sort, which has him imagining scenarios he should definitely leave out of a transaction such as this. He wants to shake his head to clear it but he’s supposed to be nodding confirmation. It comes out a circle.

“Yeah. Sorry, the habit of doing things the official way will never leave me.” Another sheepish grin. “Which means you should probably send along copies of your papers for the firearm with the other documents.”

This time, Barnes doesn’t pretend to smile. He switches the phone for his wallet again and slides out a white card. It almost looks like a military ID card, with a chip embedded under the photo of an unsmiling, short-haired Barnes, but all it’s got on it is an identity number and a department number that’s all too familiar. That number appeared on a whole lot of intelligence briefings with the sources redacted. Apparently, Barnes is affiliated with, if not directly working for, the CIA.

“I’m out on medical, but it’s still good,” he says bluntly.

Steve isn’t sure whether to sigh in relief or raise his hackles. Of his first three guesses, one is still a viable option: hitman. _Benefit of the doubt, Rogers._ “Are you wanting a month-to-month agreement, then? Or will they shackle you to a desk when you go back?”

Too late, Steve realizes he shouldn’t hand Barnes such perfect bait regarding shackles and desks, but Barnes just shrugs it off. “I’m out. The medical’s permanent,” he says in a too-casual voice. “This place comes in just under my Army retirement and VA benefits, with enough left over to live. That’s all I need.”

Steve can’t keep the sincere sympathy he feels off his face, but immediately tries to temper it so as not to offend. He glances over Barnes’ body as tactfully as possible, wondering what’s kept him out for good. The glove at Barnes’ side catches his eye, but he doesn’t dream of asking. “Well, I’m happy to have you for any length of time, but on the off chance you can’t stand living with me, let’s go month-to-month.” He powers up his most disarming smile to offset his earlier show of distrust.

It doesn’t work. Barnes is still just beyond arm’s length, and Steve gives up. He knows this distance is safer, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant. He liked Barnes more when he was aggressively, happily flirting, even if it was beyond inappropriate.

He leads Barnes back upstairs and heads for the foyer, only to hear Barnes blurt out, _“Jesus fucking Christ!”_

Steve turns, mouth open to snap out at Barnes, when he sees Barnes’ gaze is fixed on the old fireplace off to the side of the room. It’s last on Steve’s fix-it list, so it’s empty, but there are a couple of old pictures on the mantel.

And a small shadow box with a five-pointed medal hanging from a blue ribbon: Steve’s Medal of Honor — the highest award that can be given to a member of the US military.

“You didn’t —” Barnes turns a wide-eyed stare on Steve, and he straightens up, giving Steve a brisk salute. Much more sharply, he says, “I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea.”

Steve smiles, resigned. He returns the salute almost as briskly so Barnes can break position. “No need to apologize.” Barnes drops the salute, but he remains upright, no longer in a comfortable slouch. “And please, like I said, ‘sir’ is not necessary.” He walks back towards Barnes and reaches to clap him on the shoulder as a gesture of camaraderie, but what he feels under the leather jacket is too solid — too hard — to be muscle, no matter how toned.

Barnes’ breath catches, but he doesn’t move out from under Steve’s hand. “Sorry” — Steve can hear him start to say _sir_ , but he stops himself — “Cap. I’ll just...” He shoots a look towards the front door, like he needs to escape. “I’ll get the paperwork back to you ASAP.”

Steve guesses it’s only a fifty-fifty chance Barnes’ statement is sincere, but he doesn’t blame the kid for it. He understands the need for an exit line. As well as an exit. Steve nods as the soldier in his guest struggles not to salute again on his way out, and watches from the doorway as Barnes makes a gorgeous but clearly tactical retreat.


	2. Chapter 2

Back before enlisting, Bucky had been young, stupid, and immortal, just like all the other kids who ended up dead in the sand. And thank God for all the stupid stuff he’d done, because he can ride his motorcycle under any conditions, including... this. Whatever the fuck _this_ is.

It’s like his would-be landlord is two people in Bucky’s head: _Steve_ is smoking hot and has about the most perfect blush that Bucky’s ever seen, and Bucky would normally twist himself in knots to try and get Steve anywhere near a bed or back seat or, hell, either of their perfectly-paired Harleys.

 _Captain Rogers_ is a damned _Medal of Honor_ recipient. And Bucky had hit him with RPG-sized innuendos. No wonder there’s suddenly this paperwork in the way.

He knows what comes next. The paperwork drags on, because the fucking Agency is shit when it comes to responding promptly to requests for information, and whatever they provide to Captain Rogers will be nine-tenths redacted. The only reason Bucky’s still got an ID that’ll get him out of most gun charges is because of the positive shitstorm of enemies that would love to get their hands on him to unlock the intel in his head. Honestly, Bucky’s surprised he even made it back to the States alive, but that’s probably Barton’s doing. Between the two of them, they know where an awful lot of bodies are buried.

He makes it back to his shithole apartment in a haze. He locks down the helmet he wears just so he won’t get harassed, arms the bike’s alarm, and hits speed dial 2 as he heads up the sagging metal stairs.

“Why are you calling me at this hour?” Barton groans four rings later.

“It’s fucking noon,” Bucky protests as he gets his keys out. “Get your ass up here.”

“The flaw in your logic,” Barton drawls sleepily, “is that I have less than zero interest in you being anywhere near my ass.”

“Either you come up here, or I’m  —” And Bucky stops, because even his usual list of stupid, unsafe diversions doesn’t seem like enough to get his mind off this mess. _“Fuck.”_

By the time Bucky’s got his key in the lock, Barton says, much more awake, “What happened?”

“Shit. Nothing. A guy.” Bucky unlocks the door, pulls out the key, and kicks his door open just for the _thunk_ it makes against the paper-thin wall he shares with the asshole next door. A fight. That would help. “I’m going to the gym.”

“Right. And you want company.”

“You want me going alone?” Bucky asks sharply as he looks around the apartment. It was state-of-the art back in the sixties. It’s cheap and generally secure, considering a determined five-year-old could break in. No one tries, mostly because three-quarters of the men and women here are fresh in from the field, and the best of the lot are hired as on-site security. The property manager’s got a soft side for vets and zero business sense.

Barton sighs. “The gym it is. You’re buying me breakfast on the way.”

Bucky juggles the phone to strip off his leather jacket. When he tosses it at the couch, his wallet bounces out, and he thinks he should probably go to the bank and deposit that cash. Otherwise, he’ll be tempted to spend it.

“Donuts?” Bucky asks, knowing Barton’s sense of nutrition starts with sugar and ends with caffeine.

“That’s what I love about you, Barnes. You know me.”

“Lucky fucking me,” Bucky mutters, and hangs up. He’s tempted to throw the phone, too, but then he’d have to report it at group, and Sam would give him that gently disappointed look, and they’d end up talking for the whole hour about anger management techniques. So fuck it. They’re going to the gym. Anger Management 101: Hit shit until it stops moving. Non-living shit, in fact.

At least Bucky can feel good about not going to a bar instead to pick a fight. And lucky him. Instead of Captain fucking Perfect, he gets a donut with his best friend. What a life.

 

~~~

 

The day Steve mails the forms to Sergeant Barnes, he spends the afternoon on the phone. First, he calls his pal Sam, still at the VA, to see if this Barnes guy is one of his. Upon hearing the affirmative, Steve’s breathing eases in a way he isn’t expecting. Sam assures him ‘Bucky’ is a good guy, but has had a rough go of reintegration. He believes stability will do wonders. Steve can hear the expectation in the pause after that sentence, where Sam doesn’t have to say that he’s hoping Steve will step up to the plate and provide that stability. He thanks Sam and hangs up, tactfully promising nothing more than a lunch date within the next week.

The second call is to S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Hill picks up. Perfect. She likes Steve, thank God, and she’s less likely to turn the phone call into a heavy-handed recruiting effort. Steve’s surprised when it takes him all of three minutes to talk her into sending over a complete copy of Barnes’ files. He’s even more surprised at the way her voice softens as she types. And as she confirms Steve’s email address, she asks one strange question: “Did you know he’s disabled?”

Caught by surprise by the blunt question, Steve says, “No. Well, yes. He said he’s out on medical disability. But —”

“You couldn’t tell?”

“No.”

She makes a thoughtful sound. “Call me if you need anything else. And drop me a note to let me know what you think of him, okay?”

Hill’s interest is never innocent, no matter how bland her words sound, so Steve finds himself clicking on the pdf she sends him the moment it hits his inbox, wondering what S.H.I.E.L.D. could possibly want with someone like his potential new housemate.

Barnes, James Buchanan. Thirty-one, which puts him a year _older_ than Steve. The first three pages are the sort of bland service record that would make any officer’s eyes glaze over. Nothing remarkable, no skills of note, no disciplinary actions.

Page four is a scan of a different file, this one covered with stamped numbers and warnings. An operation that Steve has never heard of, in a country where the United States wasn’t supposed to be. Two sniper teams dispatched, two mission objectives achieved, both teams returned without discovery. On the next page, Barnes’ listed mission was solo. No backup. No spotter. Three weeks in Tajikistan.

Steve flips through, noting place names and team counts. Uzbekistan. Kyrgyzstan. _China?_ All either solo missions or pairs with Barton, Clint, though there are a couple of gaps in the record, as if even S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t have Barnes’ complete record. The missions go back to 2006. God. He’d been a _kid_.

His marksmanship skills aren’t listed in his Army record, even though he’d qualified for Marksman three times. His shooting skills, listed in his CIA record instead, are off the charts. Olympic-level stuff. Same with Barton, whose scores are appended to Barnes’ record. Both are also noted as having a faculty with picking up local languages and dialects.

And at the back is Barnes’ medical chart. Steve’s gut goes cold as he reads about the damage to Barnes’ left arm and shoulder. He would’ve died in the field if not for Barton’s intervention. The reconstructive surgery had been spread over two months, ending with Barnes qualifying for an experimental prosthesis from StarkTech. ‘Prosthesis’ isn’t even the right word for it. It’s a cybernetic implant, hooked directly to Barnes’ spine and brain. Steve gets lost in sci-fi terms, like ‘pressure feedback loop’ and ‘microprocessors’, because those things don’t belong in a medical report for a living man.

After almost ten years in the field and then being turned into a medical guinea pig, it’s a miracle Barnes is even functioning. No wonder he’d been half-wild and feral. The pieces fall into place all too fast. Barnes isn’t looking for an apartment. He’s looking for a safehouse. The cash and gun are probably on him at all times, even when he sleeps, because he needs to know he can escape and survive until he finds another bolthole. Steve doesn’t doubt he’s got a dozen false IDs stashed in secure deposit boxes all over the region. Even Barnes’ aggressive sexuality is meant to give a false sense of intimacy without letting anyone get close to the real James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve curses Sam under his breath. _Of course_ he’d sent Barnes Steve’s way. He knew what buying the house had meant for Steve in the way of getting him to live like a human again, and not like a hunted animal. Hell, he’d helped housetrain Steve — made him sleep in a bed and not on the couch or the floor, cooked for both of them to remind him that meals were meant to be enjoyed. And here was another stray needing a place to settle. _Pay it forward, Rogers._

Hell, all of this intel gathering and good-deed-doing will be useless if Sergeant Barnes — he’s too old for ‘kid’ — doesn’t send back the application. Steve sighs and sets the whole thing aside for now. The ball isn’t in Steve’s court, though he can’t help but wonder what will become of Barnes if he doesn’t find a safe place to settle like Steve did.

 

~~~

 

Three days later, Bucky’s surprised to find a thick envelope in the mailbox that’s usually empty except for bills and bank statements. He takes a roundabout path from the mailbox to his stairs, avoiding the worst of the rain, and gets up to the second floor without slipping and breaking his neck. His door’s unlocked, and he groans when he pushes it open.

There they are, Barton and the most gorgeous redhead to ever threaten Bucky’s life, wrapped up in each other on the sofa. _Bucky’s_ sofa. As in, the one he hasn’t gotten lucky on since he moved in.

“You’re not at your place why?” Bucky asks.

Barton comes up for air long enough to say, “Your place is closer to the vet.”

Bucky stares at him and tries his best not to let his gaze drop to Natasha’s ass. Skinny jeans should be illegal on her, especially when she’s got this radar about knowing when eyes get anywhere near them.

“Veterinarian?” Barton hints.

“Your cat.” Bucky sighs and throws his mail on the counter, no longer interested.

“Sasha — who is _very_ mis-named,” Natasha declares, “is pregnant.”

“Mazel tov,” Bucky mutters, thinking there isn’t enough beer in the world for this.

“I named her for you, sweetheart,” Barton tells Natasha.

Her withering stare manages to bring a grin to Bucky’s face. “‘Sasha’ has nothing to do with ‘Natasha’.”

“What do you expect from an uneducated American?” Bucky asks her, slipping into Russian with the sort of ease that would’ve freaked out his high school Spanish teacher. He’s always been shit with textbook learning.

Natasha beams at him. “If you weren’t such an uncultured fucking asshole, I’d marry you,” she shoots back. Her mastery of Russian swearing is the stuff of legends.

“Can we not make this a threesome?” Barton whines plaintively, stubbornly sticking to English. “Expectant father, here. Or grandfather. Or cat-parent.”

Bucky surrenders. Natasha’s done it again, damn her. She won’t let him within three feet of her, but she’s got the magical ability to charm him into a good mood every damned time. “The couch is all yours,” he says, opening the fridge.

There’s a reason Barton’s been Bucky’s closest friend for years, and it’s not because they’d saved each other’s lives enough times to stop counting. No, it’s because they know each other. There’s a fresh six-pack of beer in the fridge and takeout from Bucky’s favorite Chinese place. He grabs a carton, a beer, and a fork — to hell with chopsticks — and then picks up his mail before he retreats to the bedroom.

He drops down onto the squeaky mattress that’s half the reason Barton and Natasha are on the couch instead of in here. Once Bucky’s set up with his dinner, he opens the big envelope.

It’s actually from Captain Rogers. Startled, he looks it over and sees it’s halfway filled out. Not typed. Either Rogers has a PA to do his paperwork or he’s got the neatest handwriting Bucky has ever seen. The guy could practically do calligraphy.

He can’t help feel a little twinge of envy at that. If he has to do more than sign his name, his own handwriting looks like the chicken died halfway through scratching the page and zombies filled out the rest.

Really, though, he’s been thinking that he’d never hear from Rogers again. Maybe a polite note in a month and a half, saying, sorry, the room’s been rented to a relative, emergency visit, something like that. Rogers made it clear that he and Bucky were nowhere near the same class of person. The Medal of Honor just drove that point home.

But now, this. Bucky stares down at the forms, finding everything in perfect order. It’s boilerplate, the type of thing you can buy at any office supply store, with nothing added or crossed out. All Bucky has to do is list his references — the ones he’s allowed to mention, at least — and fill out the background check form.

Idly, he wonders what the background check agency — probably LexisNexis — might have to say about him. Does he even exist anymore? Or is he just Sergeant J. B. Barnes, with the most bland, boring service record imaginable? It’s not like they give out medals or promotions for what he and Barton did over there.

More to the point, does he even _want_ to do this? As Steve, Rogers had been hypnotically interesting. As Captain Rogers, he’d been... a little too uptight, a little too understanding, and obviously a little put off by everything about Bucky. Captain Rogers is the type of landlord that senators would trust with their granddaughters, knowing they’d have a surrogate father figure to ensure their virtue remained intact or some other fairy tale shit. People like Bucky — and, yeah, Barton — aren’t allowed in the same zip code as heroes.

But it’s the only place that’s not loud, expensive, trendy, or all three. It’s affordable, and more to the point, Sam’s vetted it. He swears it’s _exactly_ what Bucky needs to help with his reintegration into civilian society. Peace and quiet.

And Bucky’s right back to the _look_ Sam will give him if he doesn’t fill out the damned form. So fuck it. He’ll roll the dice and see what happens. Rogers will probably take one look at the redacted forms — or LexisNexis’ _no data available_ — and shred the application.

Bucky has to dig through his entire dresser to find a pen at the back of the bottom drawer. He moves from the bed to the floor, because he’s got no decent hard surface to write on, other than the coffee table. Somehow, he manages to eat his food without spilling any of it on the forms as he initials line after line after line.

No surprise, Captain Rogers has actually _highlighted_ where Bucky needs to initial, sign, or provide information. In yellow. Is he even real?

Once Bucky’s got the pile of papers filled out, he puts it on the dresser. He’ll have to go to the post office to get an envelope big enough to mail it. It’ll take a good month or two for the background check to go through, and in that time, he might find somewhere else. Somewhere less complicated. If not, though, at least he can get out of the city before Barton and Natasha break the couch and cost Bucky his security deposit.

 

~~~

 

The phone drags Bucky out of sleep. He picks it up and gets one eye to focus long enough to realize it’s just past four in the morning.

“Barton,” he growls when he sees the name on the caller ID. He answers — if he doesn’t, Barton will be pounding on his door in twenty minutes — and grunts.

“Congratulations! You’re an uncle! Sasha had five kittens!” Barton declares. He sounds drunk.

With another grunt, Bucky flips the phone over and breaks a nail ripping the back off. He takes out the battery and drops the pieces.

He has no memory of this the next morning when he wakes up at ten, long past when his alarm should have gone off. He doesn’t wonder, though. He’s done worse in his sleep. Instead, he remembers to go to the post office to mail off his lease application before he goes to the gym. No sense wasting the rest of the day.

 

~~~

 

It’s early the next week when Steve gets a thick brown envelope in the mail. He can barely read the scrawled address, and really, kudos to the Post Office for figuring out the English translation of what looks like something a cat wrote. He’s got no idea what the return address says, but he’s got a suspicion that proves right when he opens the taped-down flap.

(And maybe that should’ve been a first clue. The flap was taped instead of glued. No DNA trace for someone to find.)

It’s Barnes’ application, not that Steve can read any of it. Barnes’ initials look more like loops and whorls, and though he made some effort to clearly write out things like his social security number, Steve’s glad he bypassed the law and went to Agent Hill instead. Otherwise, he’d be requesting a dozen different background checks, because he can’t tell if that’s a 4 or a 7, and the 3 might be a 2, and so on.

He’s tempted to call Barnes right away and offer him the room, but he holds back. He knows Barnes’ mindset. After Steve’s speech about paperwork — especially with the gun involved — Barnes is going to expect Steve to move slowly on this. So he gives it a week, goes to DC for lunch with Sam three times, and somehow manages _not_ to ask if Barnes is okay or if he’s disappeared. For someone so highly trained in covert ops to be made to give out so much information, it’s a possibility — a way of making much of that intel on him obsolete.

Steve finally decides to call the number he has while it’s still a viable way of getting in touch. After four rings — right when Steve’s about to hang up — a panting, breathless voice answers, “Barnes.”

Steve’s mind is filled with the image of a heaving chest and sweaty hair falling into those bedroom eyes, and he has to clear his throat before speaking. “This is Captain Rogers — Steve. Are you free to talk for a minute?”

“Yes, sir.” It comes out military-sharp, like it’s habit. Then there’s a huffed laugh, and Barnes adds more casually, “Just let me...” In the background, Steve hears a creak, followed by a slam. “Okay. Sorry. Did you rent the room already?”

Steve is taken aback by Barnes’ question and realizes he hadn’t once thought of looking for another applicant. “No, I just —” Why hadn’t he planned out what to say ahead of time? He’s always been horrible at lying, and anything he says here is going to sound false or too knowing. “I got your paperwork back, and it all checks out. Did you still want the room?”

“You — Uh,” Barnes stammers out, sounding shocked. “Uh, I mean, no. Not... I didn’t want month-to-month.”

Steve feels wrong-footed again and wonders how he could have been so woefully unprepared for what he’d expected to be a simple conversation. “You signed the —” He flips through the lease agreement on his desk to verify that Barnes had in fact made a squiggle on the highlighted line, then takes a breath. “What did you want?”

There’s a long pause before Barnes says, “Yeah. Sh—uh, never mind. Month-to-month is fine.”

For someone who worked for the Agency, he’s a terrible liar.

“I’m happy to draw up something different…” Sam’s concerned face flashes before Steve’s eyes for just a second, making him blink. “Were you looking for something more long-term? Because I’m not going anywhere.” He tries to put a reassuring grin into his voice, but worries he just sounds desperate.

“No, sir. _Cap,_ ” Barnes corrects with a frustrated huff. “It’s fine, whatever I signed. Starting when?”

He’s going to have to train that out of Barnes if they actually live together for any length of time; it’s way too jarring to hear ‘sir’ in civilian life. “Um, whenever?” Again he tries to smile; again it feels false. “Your bathroom is finally functional, and the paint fumes in the hallway are gone, so I don’t think I’m violating any health codes having you move in as of now.”

“Okay.” Barnes sounds a little more relaxed, so maybe the smile did work. “I’m at the gym, so maybe tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. I’ll be around to let you in and give you keys and, well, if you need anything.” Steve refrains from offering to do any heavy lifting, not wanting to imply anything about Barnes’ arm. “And now you’ve got my number, if, you know, I don’t hear your knock.” _Shut up, Rogers._ He rests his head in his hand and bites down on his bottom lip.

“Okay. Oh, did you want a check instead of cash?” Barnes asks a little uncertainly.

“Whatever works for you, Barnes.” That felt odd, if they were going to live together Steve shouldn’t use his last name. _Not the time to address that now. Just get off the fucking phone._

“Tomorrow, then,” Barnes says, sounding relieved, before he hangs up.

Steve leans back in his chair and tosses the phone onto the desk, taking a deep breath as if he’d been holding it, wondering if this whole thing is a bad idea.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky has to remember to stop giving Barton copies of his keys, only it’s too useful. Barton is his backup. His contingency plan. Hell, Bucky would still be living on Barton’s sofa, if Sam hadn’t gently suggested that maybe it was time for Bucky to strike out on his own. Bucky can stand up to any amount of yelling, but Sam’s ‘suggestions’ carry the weight of orders, damn him.

This time, Barton lets himself in while Bucky’s pacing around the living room, looking for any last hints of _himself_ in the impersonal, crappy apartment. His worldly possessions fit into a backpack, with a little room to spare, so there’s almost no chance he’s forgotten anything.

“What’d you need?” Barton asks as he kicks the door shut.

“Empty the fridge. It’s all yours,” Bucky says, gesturing at the kitchenette.

Barton frowns. “What?”

“I’m moving.”

“When?”

“I dunno. Twenty minutes?” Bucky guesses, checking the time on the microwave. Assuming the time is right — which it might not be, since it resets to 12:00 with every power outage — twenty minutes is just enough time for morning traffic to clear up.

Barton’s brows shoot up towards his neat-cropped hair. Of the two of them, he’s still clinging to old military habits. “Isn’t that a little sudden?”

Bucky stops pacing and stares at him. “Is it?” he asks, feeling a little lost. He wants out of this place. Out of a building where he shares paper-thin walls with people he doesn’t know and trust. Out of the crowded city. Just _out_.

People always underestimate Barton. He’s got the face of a sweet puppy and the harmless demeanor of someone who helps old ladies cross the street. Now, though, he gives Bucky that sharp look that says he can see right through the bullshit, until Bucky turns away.

“Guess not,” Barton says casually, and Bucky hears him open the fridge. Then Barton laughs and asks, “Just how old is this pizza?”

“Um.”

“Thought so. Come on. We’ll get half of this to the dumpster before you lose your security deposit.”

It ends up taking almost forty minutes because Barton insists on going to the old guy in the first floor corner apartment to borrow a vacuum, citing the security deposit again, even though Bucky’s sure the carpet’s never been vacuumed since it was installed some time back in the sixties. Bucky stops Barton’s ‘helpful’ phase before he can think about scrubbing down the bathroom, herds him out with three shopping bags of mostly spices and beer, and then finally goes to the manager’s office to turn in his keys. They come to an agreement about the rest of his week’s rent, he leaves his forwarding address, and then he’s...

 _Free_.

It’s like he can breathe again, and he feels some of the knots in his back go loose despite the weight of the pack. The ride to Captain Rogers’ house — _his_ house, he corrects — is pretty nice.

Just after ten in the morning, when he’d usually be getting to the gym or group therapy, he parks his bike next to Rogers’ and goes to the front door. There’s no path leading around to the exterior basement door that he thinks is somewhere near the back of the house, and for a moment, looking at the neat front yard, he wonders if maybe he should suggest laying a flagstone path so he doesn’t wear tracks in the grass.

The domesticity of the thought hits him like a punch. He doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, and that stirs a sense of anxiety somewhere inside him. It’s probably something he should bring up next time he sees Sam, though maybe he won’t. Sam would probably approve.

He shifts off the backpack, rests it against his legs, and knocks, listening closely, trying to get a sense of the sounds in the house. It’s second nature for him, knowing where not to step to avoid a creaky board.

The door opens to reveal Captain Rogers bearing a welcoming smile and a spatula. “Good timing. I was just making breakfast.” The smell of frying bacon backs up his claim. “Have some before you move your things in.”

Bucky considers this for all of half a second, because the cold fried chicken that was slightly dehydrated isn’t sitting too well with him, but he and Barton couldn’t decide to keep it or toss it. “Got everything right here,” he says, picking up the backpack and stepping into the foyer. “Thanks. I don’t want to be in your way.”

“This is half your space now, Barnes, the last thing you are is in the way.” Captain Rogers — and _shit_ , Bucky needs to stop thinking of him that way, but he can’t find a balance between friendliness and ingrained military discipline. _Rogers_ turns to head back to the kitchen, looking over his shoulder as he speaks. “Besides, I made too much because I didn’t want the bacon to go bad.”

“Bacon can go bad?” Bucky asks a little stupidly, before he can stop himself, remembering far too many breakfast incidents after he’d stopped living on chow hall food and MREs. How he hasn’t given himself food poisoning, he still doesn’t know.

“I bought it during tomato season for BLTs and forgot about it until now.” Steve’s ears turn slightly pink. His head is turned toward the stove, profile backlit by the sun in the kitchen window, and Bucky catches himself staring. “Go stow your stuff in your room and wash up if you like. I think there are towels down there. Food will be ready in ten.”

Towels. _Shit_. Bucky’s forgotten about towels and linens, but it looks like that comes with the room. Good.

He sneaks one last look at Rogers — and God, this is going to be hell, living with this sort of temptation. He knows himself too well, and there _will_ come a point when attraction will end up making him forget all about that Medal of Honor on the fireplace mantel, but that won’t be today. Just to make sure, though, he escapes before he can say something else stupid.

 

~~~

 

_You are not running a bed and breakfast for wayward soldiers, Rogers._

For God’s sake. Bacon going bad? He’d bought that package yesterday, along with the eggs and a loaf of bread, for the sole purpose of cooking for Barnes. He’s turning into Sam, and for a moment it grates on him so hard he almost breaks the spatula against the edge of the pan. This is a horrible idea. That fucking sniper in his basement is the most gorgeous thing he’s laid eyes on in way too long and will be sleeping under his roof from now on. That is, until the next time Barnes decides he’s got to get out — to pack his few things and leave without a trace. There’s a reason people don’t get attached to wild animals. They don’t stick around long enough.

Barnes sneaks back upstairs, and only the faint creak of the basement door keeps Steve from jumping out of his skin. After a few seconds of awkward hovering at Steve’s back, Barnes asks, “Is there anything I can do?” The way he cuts off the last word makes Steve hear the _‘sir’_ Barnes manages to suppress, with effort.

Steve takes a deep breath before turning around, not trusting himself to meet Barnes’ eyes as he smiles and gestures to the dishes cabinet and then the silverware drawer. “Grab plates and forks?” He turns back to the frying pan as he continues, “And feel free to nose around, figure out where everything is. Of course, you’re welcome to use anything.”

“Yeah, we’ll start with plates first,” Barnes says with a rough laugh as he starts opening cupboards. “Usually I’d end up eating out of the frying pan. Less in the way of dishes to wash.”

“Bachelor lifestyle. I know it well.” Steve hesitates for a second, wondering if he should plate the food or let Barnes serve himself. He errs on the side of being seen as too much the host in order to make sure the plate he hands over is full.

Apparently he’d guessed right, thinking that Barnes would’ve taken almost nothing for himself. Barnes ducks his head, mumbles his thanks, and slinks off to the kitchen table, where he takes the seat that’s shoved up against the wall, rather than the much more convenient one that would leave his back to the room.

Then he stands back up and takes off the gloves he’d been wearing, and Steve tells himself not to stare at the metal hand. Barnes never looks up as he shrugs out of his jacket. The ridged, overlapping metal plates disappear into the short sleeve of his T-shirt. This time, Steve notes, Barnes _isn’t_ armed, at least not openly. He wonders if the gun is in a back holster or in the pack downstairs. Before Barnes sits back down, he takes his wallet out of his jacket and counts out cash, which he sets awkwardly in the middle of the table.

Steve pushes the pile of money to the side and places the extra set of keys next to it before he sits facing his new housemate, completely at a loss for a topic of conversation. Luckily, the food is good, and they’re both hungry. He’d defaulted to scrambled eggs because they’re easiest. Steve realizes immediately he shouldn’t have worried about not giving Barnes a choice when he practically inhales them in four bites, without pause.

Barnes notices Steve watching and gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Cap. Real eggs, not powdered. It’s been a while.”

Steve smiles back, remembering chow hall food and inwardly shuddering. “No need to apologize for an appreciation of my cooking.” He watches Barnes pick up the bacon with his fingers and eat the entire slice in a few quick crunches. When he actually sticks his fingertip in his mouth to lick off the grease clinging to his skin, Steve’s brain shuts down. _That mouth..._

Then Barnes catches himself. He goes red, ducking his head again, and grabs at the napkins stacked in the middle of the table. He doesn’t apologize as he cleans his hand with twitchy little motions. Then he stabs his fork into another slice of bacon, only to crack it into pieces.

Steve can’t hide his grin at the attempt at politeness. “Don’t stand on ceremony in your own home, Barnes. Besides, I cook it too crisp to be eaten any other way.” He grabs a piece off his own plate, then stands up and goes to the fridge to keep himself from staring. “I almost forgot. Something to drink? Orange juice? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee?” Barnes says hopefully. Steve makes the mistake of looking his way, and he doesn’t know what’s more devastating: Barnes’ eyes or his mouth. Especially when Barnes smiles and adds, “I didn’t make it to Starbucks this morning, so I’m running on fumes.”

Steve had been up at six and out for a run, then showered and sitting down with his first cup before eight, but there are some things he keeps in military order. One is the coffee maker. The moment the carafe is empty, it’s cleaned, and the whole thing is filled and reset, ready for its next use. He flips the start switch on his way to grab mugs and spoons. “It’ll just take a minute. I make it strong. Milk? Sugar?”

“Black’s fine. I got used to it like that,” Barnes says with what Steve guesses is his more customary, relaxed grin. Maybe he’s already feeling okay being here, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s finished off all the bacon, unfortunately while Steve’s back was turned. “So, is there a cheap gym around here, or am I stuck going all the way back to DC?”

Steve doesn’t need an image of Barnes sweating on a treadmill or grunting under a barbell on a weight bench at that moment. Luckily, his head is back in the fridge, where he’s grabbing the milk. “There's a gym not too far away, and there are parks all over the place, with jogging trails. You can use my membership until you get one of your own.”

“That’d be great,” Barnes says, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice. “Thanks.”

Steve steals a glance back and sees the tight line of Barnes’ shoulders has eased. His plate’s clean except for crumbs, and Steve can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at guessing right. Good thing he’s laid in supplies for a big lunch, too, since he hadn’t been certain about his guess that Barnes was still a creature of habit and would show up at ten a.m. again. Maybe this will work after all.

 

~~~

 

It takes Bucky all of ten minutes to unpack, though he doesn’t want to. He wants to live out of his pack, the way he had for a solid month after coming back to the States, but he knows he can’t. So he hangs up clothes, takes his toiletries out of the bag, and puts his gun cleaning kit in the desk drawer. The pack goes on the bottom of the closet, by his running shoes.

Then he starts searching the room. He tells himself it’s because he’s in a basement, and even though the house looks clean enough that he could eat off the floor, this is the East Coast, outside the mosquito haven that is DC. Cockroaches, waterbugs, earthworms — they’re all over the place. And if he glances in light fixtures and under his mattress looking for the _other_ kind of bug, well, he’s just being thorough.

He finds nothing except a couple of fragments of masking tape from Captain — _Steve’s_ — painting, and then he feels stupid for even looking. This is a nice place. Really nice. New mattress, good sheets, thick towels. The water heater is close, which means he’ll get hot water fast, even if he has to put up with the noise. Best of all, he’s got his own exit.

Breathing a little easier, he sends Barton a text with his new address and a warning not to just show up at three in the morning. Then, fingering the new keys that are now on the ring beside the key to his bike, he thinks about scoping the area. He doesn’t really want to leave, but he doesn’t know if that’s just him being _him_ or if it’s because he’s hoping to catch sight of Steve again.

 _You live here now, idiot,_ he reminds himself. So he puts on his jacket and gloves, and he goes out into the hallway, automatically listening to the door to see if he needs to oil the hinges. It swings smoothly and silently. He unlocks the basement door, goes out into the cool air, then locks the door behind himself. The lock is new and a little stiff, and he makes a note to hit it with some graphite.

The side yard is as neat as the rest of the property. No stray leaves, hedges neatly trimmed, grass mowed. Bucky’s surprised there’s no vegetable garden out back, but maybe that’s a seasonal thing? He’s never actually been near a vegetable garden in person — not coming from Brooklyn, anyway.

It smells green. Not green and dry, like the desert fields that always caught the new guys by surprise, as if people could survive somewhere nothing grows. It’s green and wet, and there’s a hint of woodsmoke on the wind. The air is sharp and cool, full of a sense of anticipation. Maybe even the promise of snow.  It feels even better than he’d expected, and the tension he’s carried for months dials back another notch.

He starts walking in a random direction, gloved hands shoved into his jacket pockets. The sidewalk is cracked not from neglect but from old trees overgrowing their dirt patches and pushing up the slabs. There aren’t any street lights in the area — just stop signs and some blind curve warning signs. He makes a mental note to look up the nearby necessities, like a gas station.

When he’s three blocks down, his phone buzzes. Barton’s text makes no sense, but most of them don’t: _I need a name._

These days, Bucky doesn’t even ask. He just answers _Steve_ and sends it before he wonders what the hell he’s doing. Other than possibly obsessing on his too-hot, too-high-ranking, too- _distinguished_ landlord.

_Stupid name. Gimme another. Something fun, asshole._

Bucky’s tempted to turn off the phone, which is his usual solution to Barton being Barton, but now he’s hesitant. Steve has this number. What if he calls?

So instead, thinking about Steve, Bucky sends back _Cap_. When he gets no answer, he assumes that’s good enough and goes back to walking.

He loses himself in the walk, mostly because there’s nothing to set him off and send him running for safety. No crowds, no loud noises, no suspicious traffic. It’s peaceful in a way that’s entirely alien to Bucky, and the only interruption comes hours later, in the form of another text.

_If you’re around in a bit, I was thinking of making lunch. It’s just soup and sandwiches, so whenever._

The number is unfamiliar. It takes Bucky a moment to put together the whole _lunch_ thing. He stops, hit with too many thoughts all at once. Guilt because maybe Steve was waiting for him. Irritation because he doesn’t need a babysitter. Pleasure because he _wants_ someone to actually give a damn, other than Barton. And finally, embarrassment. He can backtrack blindfolded, but he’s taken random lefts and rights, and he doesn’t know if he’s two blocks or two hours from home.

Typing carefully, he answers, _I’m at Woodbury and Marilyn. How far is that?_

_You’re three towns over. Want a ride back? I have to stop at the store._

_Sure,_ he types back before he can stop himself. Idiot. But as he’s typing in another message to tell Steve not to bother, Steve sends directions to a nearby park, with instructions to wait there. Bucky deletes his half-typed message, sends back an acknowledgement, and starts heading for the park, torn between feeling like a pain in the ass and liking the fact that Steve doesn’t yet feel compelled to throw him out.

 

~~~

 

Steve hops on his bike and heads to the store to pick up more coffee. He needs to cover the lie he’d texted Barnes, who is at least an hour’s walk away from home. Steve’s halfway to the store when he realizes he should have taken the truck if he planned on picking up a passenger.

_This is why you are so bad at lying, Rogers. You don’t think of minimizing the fallout._

In this case, the ‘fallout’ is a seat that can take two passengers but isn’t built to keep a comfortable three inches between them. And Barnes is in tight jeans worn thin over the thighs and ripped at the knees.

There’s no time to go home and switch vehicles, so Steve goes to the park. It’s a harmless sort of place where Steve occasionally likes to sit on a bench and draw. Only now, Barnes is on Steve’s favorite bench by the pond, and he’s sprawled there, arms across the back, legs open just enough to distract anyone walking by. He’s leaning back, face tipped up to the sun, eyes closed, though Steve has no doubt that he’s alert to his surroundings.

Steve can’t take his eyes off the stretched throat as he contemplates approaching silently on foot and seeing how close he can get before Barnes is alerted to his presence. But he doesn’t want to spook his half-tame housemate, so he pulls the bike up to the curb instead, and Barnes looks up at once, eyes locking to the bike. Steve waves, and then immediately feels stupid for having done so.

Barnes doesn’t wave back. He gets up gracefully, and he gives the back of his jacket a little twitch to tug it down as he stands. So he _is_ carrying, Steve decides, though he himself has only rarely worn a back holster.

And then Steve forgets about his housemate being armed, because that housemate is stalking towards him, with long strides and enough hip movement to keep dragging Steve’s gaze down. Thank God for sunglasses.

Barnes, who’s not wearing sunglasses, rakes his own eyes down. At Steve or at the bike? Steve doesn’t know, but either one works for him.

 _Get your mind out of the gutter, Rogers!_ he scolds himself, and he tries to get the kickstand down to make it easier for Barnes to mount, but Barnes never gives him the chance. He puts his left hand — the metal one — on Steve’s shoulder, and the fingers curve enough to grip without crushing. He swings his leg over the back of the bike, and then he’s settled right up against Steve’s back. There’s no time for Steve to offer his one helmet to his passenger. Barnes’ hands go to Steve’s hips, and he leans in just enough to speak into Steve’s left ear, “Thanks, Cap. I appreciate this.”

Steve manages a rough, “Of course.” Then he clears his throat and revs the bike to get his composure back, wondering what he did to deserve this torture. Not that he’s complaining, necessarily, because it’s been a long time since he’s been able to indulge in this particular pleasure, but he isn’t quite ready for this much physical contact with his renter so soon after money has exchanged hands.

He pulls out into the street, and almost immediately he feels Barnes’ head press against his back. The hands on Steve’s hips go tight, and any other time Steve might be impressed at the dexterity of the cybernetic hand. Now, all he can think is just how damned close those metal fingers are...

Barnes spends the whole ride home clinging to Steve like a living backpack, and it’s not until they’re in the driveway, where Barnes dismounts, that Steve realizes he was trying — and failing — to avoid the worst of the wind. Barnes’ hair is everywhere, looking like he got caught behind a fighter jet at takeoff. It’s messy and should make Steve’s hackles rise, because there’s nothing even slightly _neat_ about it, but all he can think is that _this_ is how Barnes must look against a pillow, after he’s been fucked breathless.

The absolutely filthy thought derails Steve. It’s Barnes who grins first as he leans in to get the grocery bag out of the saddlebags behind the seat. “Thanks. Gorgeous bike,” he says, giving the Softail an admiring look from back wheel to front. The look continues up Steve’s body before Barnes looks him right in the sunglasses. “I’ll drop this in the kitchen and go clean up.”

And then Barnes is gone, taking the porch steps in one bound. He’s inside the house before Steve can even get the kickstand down and get off the bike.

Steve stares after his housemate, remembering the first term that came to mind when he’d showed up on the porch, and Steve wonders if he’d forego the extra income for a piece of that ass on the regular. Then he takes off his sunglasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

_Inappropriate, Rogers!_

He wonders if he can sneak upstairs for a shower before making them both lunch.


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, they fall into a pattern. Bucky thinks of his landlord as Steve and calls him Cap to his face, and Steve switches between Bucky and Barnes. As long as he’s not using James, which he’d tried only once, Bucky’s fine with whatever Steve wants to call him.

Steve doesn’t seem to have a job. He goes for early morning runs that Bucky times by listening to the creak of the floorboards and the gentle click as Steve softly closes the front door. After the run, they share breakfast — and Bucky doesn’t help with that, after the one incident that proved he still couldn’t break eggs without getting shells everywhere. Then Bucky goes to his late-morning physical therapy or group therapy or over to Johns Hopkins once to let them test his nervous system and make sure the arm’s interface isn’t frying his brain.

Usually, Bucky’s not back in time for lunch, so he makes a habit of bringing home dinner. He even gets an insulated reusable grocery bag so the food from DC is still hot by the time he brings it back. He learns that Steve loves Chinese food and will politely eat Indian but it makes him cough. Possibly too spicy. Bucky never goes back to the Indian place again, though he tells himself he's just being courteous.

Then Friday evening rolls around, and dinner — pizza ordered locally, since he hasn’t yet figured out how to transport a large pizza on the bike without killing himself — is interrupted by a half-dozen texts. After the third one, Bucky shoves the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. After the sixth, he takes the phone out and goes to power it down.

“Isn’t that important?” Steve asks.

Bucky looks up and catches himself staring as Steve rescues a half-piece of pepperoni from falling and eats it, then licks his fingertips. Steve’s picking up Bucky’s bad habits, and Bucky thanks God for that, because Steve’s mouth — so neat and sweetly curved — needs some bad habits. Lots of them.

Then he realizes Steve had actually asked a question. He swipes the phone and sighs. “It’s Barton. Uh, my partner.” Then he blinks and looks up at Steve, wide-eyed at what he’d just said. “From the Army, I mean,” he clarifies.

Steve nods, his chewing slow, then swallows to speak. “You aren’t going to leave him hanging, are you? Six texts sounds urgent.” He waves to the phone. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

“Barton’s the reason unlimited texting was invented,” Bucky mutters, but he unlocks the phone anyway, feeling guilty. If he’s taught Steve bad habits, then Steve’s good ones are starting to rub off on him, starting with no texting at the table. Of course, _eating_ at the table is pretty new. Then again, so is having a table in the first place.

Then Bucky rolls his eyes. There’s a new club in town. There’s _always_ a new club in town. And naturally Barton is as excited as a kid hopped up on Halloween candy. Maybe Bucky could muster some enthusiasm, if he wasn’t living with someone who’d driven every other fantasy out of Bucky’s head. Even Natasha seems plain by comparison, and that’s saying a lot.

“They want me to go out with them,” he mutters, only half-aware that he’s speaking aloud.

Steve swallows again. “And what do you want?” He’s stopped eating but has his hand around his beer as if he’ll take a drink any moment.

There’s absolutely no force on earth that could compel Bucky to actually recite the list of what he wants. Instead, he tries to find a way out of this. He wants to go out. He really does. He’s starting to feel cooped in, despite the days he spends out of the house. And for all that Barton’s a pain in the ass, he’s also Bucky’s closest friend, and Bucky misses hanging out with him. Hell, Bucky even misses hanging out with Natasha. He hasn’t had anyone snipe at him in more than a week, except for one asshole at group, and Sam usually shuts that down before they can get a really good fight going.

“You feel like going?” He blurts out the question before he really thinks it through, and then panics. “It’s just, Barton’s got someone, so I’m the third wheel — Not that you’d be — But, you know, if you weren’t doing anything...” He trails off, wondering if he can just go downstairs and shoot himself. No, he’d do it outside, so he didn’t ruin the carpet.

Steve blinks. Twice. “Going where?” He breaks eye contact right after asking to take a long sip of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Bucky has to look back down at the phone in his left hand to find his voice.

“Um. Ember?” He shrugs and looks back up at Steve. “Dunno anything about it. It just opened.”

“With a name like that, odds are good it’s a club, right? I haven’t been to one of those in a while. Not since Sam lived here.”

 _Sam?_ Bucky wonders if he means Sam Wilson, but Sam isn’t exactly an uncommon name. Then he gets an uncomfortable sort of jealousy, wondering just who this Sam is. Sam and Steve. _Sam and Steve._ It sounds disgustingly domestic.

Hell, Sam might not even be a guy. There are plenty of girls named Sam. Which would make it that much more likely that Bucky didn’t have a chance in hell with Steve.

Bucky shrugs and looks back down at his phone. “Yeah, probably.”

“I think it’s possible I’ve become too suburban for a brand new club on a Friday night. But have fun with your friends.” He picks up another slice of pizza and focuses on keeping the cheese on it as he aims it at his open mouth.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything, because he doesn’t know what he’ll say. He shouldn’t have asked. He’s definitely crossed a line now, and that crosses Steve off the list of future one-in-a-million possibilities.

He just nods and texts Barton back: _I’m in. Meet you there at ten._

 

~~~

 

Bucky doesn’t leave. Steve lurks downstairs in the living room, only half focusing on his investigation of the workings of the fireplace and his reorganization of his record collection as the hours tick past. He hears the rumble of pipes when Bucky showers, but then... nothing. Did he decide not to go, after Steve opted out?

Should Steve have said yes to encourage Bucky to be social? Or at least be social with people other than him? Because the last couple weeks have spoiled Steve and lulled him into the fictional feeling that he has a friend. A friend he would fuck the stuffing out of, if something like that were ever actually on offer. Because since their first meeting, Bucky’s overt flirting has toned down, and Steve’s starting to feel like a dirty old man, with all the ogling he can’t keep in check.

Case in point: Steve is messing around in the living room for no good reason, just to catch a glimpse of Bucky when he leaves for the club. And Bucky might just go out the back door anyway... though Steve’s pretty sure Bucky likes the attention he gets from Steve, even if he gets it all the time. He must, from everyone.

And he’ll get _more_ attention at the club tonight, Steve is certain. He’ll get offers too, or he’ll make them. Steve has to press his lips together tightly to deal with the surge of irrational jealousy that runs through him at the thought.

Bucky might not come home tonight, or he might bring someone back to the house with him. Steve sets down the White Stripes record in his hands to not crack it in half.

_Get control of yourself, Rogers!_

The moment passes, and he feels better for dealing with it and letting it go. Bucky can do what and who he likes, and Steve can be a good friend about it.

And then Bucky comes upstairs, and Steve whimpers internally. Bucky’s jeans are so dark blue they’re almost black, and they barely come up past his hips. They’re tight enough to be painted on, so tight that they’re tucked into black leather boots slouched around his ankles, which are adorned with unnecessary straps and silver buckles. He’s got layered shirts — a white shirt under a black sweater, both with long sleeves, probably to cover his cybernetic arm. The open buttons at Bucky’s throat are an unfair temptation, and the sweater isn’t shapeless and grandfatherly. He’s done more than comb his hair. He’s teased it back, and while it should look like a mess, it somehow doesn’t. And Steve swears that his eyelashes are thicker, longer, darker, as if he’s wearing mascara, but... he wouldn’t. Would he? Whatever he’s done, it’s absolutely sinful.

He flashes a quick smile at Steve as he wraps a thin scarf loosely around his throat, draping the ends over his chest. It won’t do a damned thing to keep him warm in this weather — not that those jeans will, either. Steve confirms that yes, they really are _that tight_ when Bucky turns his back to take his leather jacket off the coat rack by the front door.

“I turned on the light outside my door, so I won’t wake you up when I get back,” Bucky says as he shrugs into the jacket. He darts a look over at Steve, and Steve’s almost positive that there’s mascara involved. Nature didn’t create those lashes. Or if she did, Steve feels the need to write her a personal thank you note. Bucky smiles back at him and adds, “Have a good night.”

Steve, who’s sitting on the floor in the center of a scattering of record covers, manages to scratch out, “You too,” as Bucky reaches for the door.

After Bucky leaves, Steve falls backwards and stretches out on the floor in resignation. He spends a good ten minutes torturing himself with thoughts of pressing up against that body on the dance floor.

And then he goes to take a shower.

 

~~~

 

It’s just past one when Steve hears the softest noises from downstairs — a creak, a click, and then the low rumble of the water heater.

Bucky is home. And he’s only been out for... three hours? If that, with travel time? More to the point, he’s probably alone. There’s nothing in the lease about _occasional_ overnight guests — after all, Steve’s not a puritan — but he’s almost positive that he’d hear a stranger walking around in his house, even down in the basement. And all he hears is the familiar, distant sound of Bucky.

Steve blinks up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom and does everything he can to suppress the satisfaction that spreads through him at the thought that Bucky’s home, in _his_ house, and not out being touched and ogled and fucked by others. He’s unsuccessful at this, and it makes him terribly angry at himself.

Then, minutes after the water turns off, Steve hears the creak of the basement steps, followed by the interior door. He can’t resist the thought of going downstairs for a glass of water.

He turns on the stairwell light so he won’t catch Bucky off-guard. Steve’s learned the hard way that Bucky, when startled, will remain tense and twitchy for hours. He can sympathize.

At the foot of the stairs, he turns and goes back down the hall, saying, “Hey, you’re home early —”

And stops when Bucky turns back from the fridge, beer in hand. His wet hair is hanging down to shoulders, dripping over his bare back. A tiny corner of Steve’s mind notes the surgical scars from the metal plating over his cybernetic arm and shoulder. The rest of his brain shuts down completely at the sight of far more muscles than he’d expected.

“Hey, sorry. Did I wake you?” Bucky asks, closing the fridge. He steps out from behind the island, and Steve sees he’s put those jeans back on, hanging even lower, since he hadn’t bothered to button them. Steve is _positive_ he’s wearing nothing underneath. And when he turns, Steve sees ink at the crest of his right shoulder — a complex design of a wreath, a wolf’s head, crossed rifles, and words that Steve can’t entirely focus on. It’s an intricate tattoo that’s probably gorgeous, but taking it all in at once is almost too much.

And of course Steve is wearing only a ratty fitted t-shirt and boxers, which are shit at covering his surprised interest.

_Fall back, Rogers!_

But he can’t; he’s committed himself to this interaction and will have to do his best. He moves behind the thankfully waist-high island and fills a glass at the sink. He lets the cold water run over his wrist, hoping it’ll have some effect on his heartbeat. And the direction of blood flow. Or something.

“You’re not sleepwalking, are you, Cap?” Bucky asks with a teasing grin, leaning against the other side of the island.

“No. Too light a sleeper.” He has to turn fully around in a moment, but Bucky is bathed in moonlight and a lock of hair is caught at the corner of his mouth and... Steve downs his glass of water to buy a bit more time.

“Sorry,” Bucky says much more softly. “Go back to sleep.” He turns to head for the basement door, giving Steve an unnecessarily good view from behind.

“I wasn’t asleep when you came in.” _Quiet, Rogers, you idiot!_ Too late.

Bucky looks back over his metal shoulder, smiling slyly. “Go back to bed, then?”

Everything in Steve wants to say “only if you come with me,” except his voice. All he can do is nod.

Bucky’s smile brightens into a grin, as if he knows what Steve’s thinking. Then he disappears through the doorway, closing the door, and Steve can breathe again.

Enough to curse himself all the way back up to his empty bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Somehow, things go back to normal, or as close as they’d ever been. Steve manages not to embarrass himself further, and they fall back into their routine. Bucky comes home later than expected a couple of times, and those nights are filled with stories, sometimes hard to follow, of Bucky and Barton — who is always Barton, never Clint — in hinted-at desert countries or Eastern European nations that had once been part of the Soviet Union. Steve listens, knowing how important that is, and he keeps from letting slip that he’s seen Bucky’s unredacted file.

And then, it’s the end of the month.

Steve’s always had a soft spot for Halloween, especially in this neighborhood. There aren’t any violent pranks or gangs of uncostumed teenagers roaming the streets in search of victims. Instead, there are kids too small to walk for more than a few blocks without being carried, parents who shiver in their jackets and point flashlights at friendly houses before turning the kids loose, and sales at the stores where Steve can load up on candy, guilt-free.

He doesn’t decorate — not after an entire summer of home renovation — but he does a passable job at pumpkin carving. He forgets all about the seeds he’s toasting in the oven, and the internet is utterly unhelpful about what to do with the pumpkin guts, but the pumpkin itself ends up in a place of honor on the front porch. Good enough.

The kids start showing up around two in the afternoon. He’s got the screen door propped open, and he can track the kids’ general ages by how high up on the door they knock. Three, four, five o’clock... A good thirty kids have come by before Bucky gets home. He doesn’t come in the front way, Steve notices while he’s feeding the local werewolf pack. Instead, Bucky ducks around the side of the house, and Steve hears him use the basement entrance.

He doesn’t come upstairs for dinner.

Steve’s got the windows open to get rid of the burnt pumpkin smell, and the sound of kids and slow-moving cars prevents him from keeping track of whatever Bucky’s doing. At about half past six, there’s a lull in the action. Steve does a quick check down the block in both directions and doesn’t see anything. It’s dinner time, and at least some parents will want their kids to have actual food, rather than pure sugar.

Steve throws some russet potatoes in the oven and opens the basement door, and for the first time he hears music. Classic rock, of all things. And underneath it, he hears a metal-on-metal sound that’s familiar. The slide of a gun.

His heart bangs into his throat because an image of the muzzle pressed to Bucky’s temple is his whole world for a split second. He gasps at the panic that streaks through him, and he noisily descends the stairs, hoping he can be ready for any eventuality. He calls Bucky’s name over the music just before knocking, holding his breath until the door clicks and swings open.

Steve’s fears vanish in a flash of disorientation. It’s Bucky — at least, he’s _mostly_ sure it’s Bucky, because this Bucky stares at him from eyes ringed with smudged black eyeshadow, not only above but also under his eyelids, making the blue startlingly bright. Damp hair is pulled back in a ponytail, with only a few strands left to hang down around his face. His skin is paler than normal, and Steve’s positive that his lips aren’t that dark without help.

Steve tears his eyes away and looks down, thinking that’s safer, but no help there. Bucky’s changed from his jeans into leather pants and familiar slouched boots, and a T-shirt that was once grey but is spotted with gold-tinged oil. A towel hangs from his right hand, which he used to open the door. He smells of gunpowder and bitter cleaning chemicals. The combination of sight and scent makes Steve’s own pants feel as tight as the leather he’s looking at.

“Too loud?” Bucky asks tensely as he retreats to the desk beside the door. His gun — a SIG — is partially disassembled. Bucky drops the towel on the desk and sits, continuing to break down the weapon.

“N—no. Um.” Steve’s completely forgotten why he wanted to come down here originally and just stands, mesmerized by Bucky’s hands on the gun, familiar as a lover.

Bucky looks up, eyes framed by his long, long lashes — just as there’s a knock upstairs. His hands twitch, and his whole body tenses up so tight that he shudders. He stares back down at the gun and says, “More kids, probably.”

Steve freezes for a split second, torn between the desire to help calm Bucky and the pressure to play the host to trick-or-treaters at the door. Trying to do the one quickly before the other will defeat the whole purpose, so Steve goes against his manners and steps slowly forward until he can get a steadying hold on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’ll send them away. Buck…”

Bucky shakes his head tensely. “No problem. We were at the range today. I figured —” He twitches again at another knock, then takes a deep breath. “I wanted to clean it before going out.”

His focus on the gun instead of the threat makes Steve more worried and more cautious. He steps even closer, but he’s careful not to move out of Bucky’s line-of-sight. Slowly, he moves both hands to Bucky’s back. The left rests at the base of Bucky’s neck to give the seam between flesh and cybernetics a wide berth, and the right slowly presses deeply into the knots in Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky lets out a ragged breath, just short of a groan. His right hand relaxes, dropping a spring to the desk. His left hand stays tight on the gun, but Steve doesn’t think the cybernetics can ‘relax’. Very softly, Bucky says, “Fuck.”

Already, the calming strategy is working, as if Bucky is touch-starved. He can’t be, can he? He’s never brought a date home, but looking like that, he can’t spend _all_ his nights alone.

 _Concentrate, Rogers!_ Steve presses his hand in again, and Bucky makes another quiet sound. It isn’t a massage, per se, just pressure. Grounding. That first, then the other essentials: food, water, quiet. Steve keeps his voice just as soft as Bucky’s. “Have you eaten?”

“Tacos, before the range,” Bucky says, though it’s muffled from how he rolls his neck and lets his head fall forward. “Gunpowder residue.”

Of course. Eating right after means everything’s covered with toxic residue, so you’ve got to find the time to wash up thoroughly. That must be why his hair is wet. “I’m going to grab you a bottle of water and close up shop out front. You are going to wash your hands and come up for dinner. Unless you want me to bring it down here?”

Bucky shakes his head, barely moving except to set the frame of the gun down on the desk. He shifts his weight just enough to lean against Steve’s hands. The pressure makes Steve want to keep touching. He squeezes the left side of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky’s response is a soft groan that’s borderline obscene. That makes Steve remember the weight in his pants, and he wonders if everything just shifted focus for both of them or just him. He closes his eyes tight and works on keeping himself calm enough to make sure Bucky’s relaxed.

“Want me to go get that water or...?”

Bucky lets Steve push his shoulders forward a bit, exposing his nape. His shirt goes tight across his back. “Is ‘or’ this?” he mumbles. “You could make this into a career.”

Steve lets out a small huff of breath. Pliance means calm. Calm means no blood-spattered bullet holes in the wall. “If ‘this’ is helping, I won’t stop yet. Dinner won’t burn.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters again, and Steve takes it as a sign that he’s still stressed. Otherwise, he’s generally behaved himself as far as keeping his language in check. He braces his elbows on the desk and slides forward a few inches, exposing more of his back. “Let it burn. Doesn’t count until there are actual flames.”

The expanse of muscle that’s now opened up means another level of commitment, but given they still have a few hours of potential door-knocking to go, Steve feels it’s a good idea to neutralize the threat of violence before preventing the sound that triggers it.

Steve warns, “I’m going to step behind you to get a better angle.”

Bucky gives a very slight shrug. Steve moves behind the chair and realizes to be effective he should work on both sides at once, but he has no idea if he can touch Bucky’s left shoulder without causing pain or discomfort — or, worse, reminding him of the injury that ended his career.

In the end, Steve settles for working his hands down either side of Bucky’s spine. Every muscle in Bucky’s body seems tight, so anywhere Steve touches, he can probably do some good, at least.

And slowly, it starts to work.

Bucky’s breathing slows, and the next time there’s a knock at the front door, he barely twitches. Steve keeps his hands carefully above Bucky’s waist, silently thanking God that the T-shirt is long enough to keep skin from showing. As long as Steve’s fingers are on cotton, he’s safe.

Then there’s a sharp buzz from one corner of the desk. Bucky lifts his head as his phone flashes with a notification. “Fucking Barton,” he mumbles, sitting back, momentarily trapping Steve’s hands against the padded back of the chair. “There’s some party tonight or something,” Bucky says, rolling his head towards one shoulder, then the other, stretching his neck.

Oh, right. The world exists outside of Steve's hands on his housemate. He sighs and pulls them out from against the chair and rests them on the back of it, leaning over Bucky’s head, where he can smell Bucky’s shampoo. “Hence the makeup. What are you going as?” Steve hates the idea of Bucky leaving, then hates himself for feeling that way.

“Not as pretty as Natasha,” Bucky explains unhelpfully with a rough laugh. There’s a sharp moment when Steve wonders who the fuck Natasha is, but then Bucky leans back, head bumping into Steve’s abdomen, and the jealousy leaves him in a rush. Upside-down, Bucky’s smile is every bit as charming as normal. “Thanks, sir.”

Steve thought he’d calmed down while focusing on the slow massage, but that word spikes low through him, and he loses his breath. _Get it together, Rogers._ “Of course.” He manages to pat Bucky’s right shoulder in a purely friendly way and backs away from the chair as Bucky checks his phone.

“Shit,” Bucky says, getting to his feet. He gives his hands a cursory wipe on the towel, then reaches back and pulls the T-shirt over his head in one quick move that has Steve staring before he can think to turn away. “Um, I’ll never get to the range to lock this away. You have a safe where I can put it?” he asks, reaching for the disassembled pieces of his gun, though he hesitates. He’s broken it down to the point where he’d need a ziploc to transport all the components without losing anything essential.

“I do, actually. But —” Steve is oddly wary of what might happen here. If Bucky is actually giving him his gun for safe keeping, that feels... Steve feels the weight of that decision. Because to Bucky, he’s not much more than a stranger — not field-tested, certainly — and it amounts to giving Steve the responsibility not only to keep the weapon safe but to ensure the safety of others, and Bucky himself. Because if anything were to happen to the gun — or God forbid, _with_ it — that’s on the owner. _And_ he’s trusting Steve to be willing to give it back when he asks for it.

_Fuck._

He looks back over at the desk, where the gun is in half-cleaned pieces. “Should I reassemble…” He’s not even sure he should ask that.

Bucky’s crossed the room, to the bed. Now he turns back as he pulls on a tight black sleeveless shirt that stretches into translucent shadow over skin. He tugs the elastic out of his hair, releasing it to fall around his face. “Shit,” he says, looking towards the desk. “Um. I can bag it. Or I can just put it back together and carry it. No trouble.”

There’s nowhere — _nowhere_ — Bucky can possibly carry it concealed in that outfit. It’s all tight leather and stretchy fabric and metal and skin and… Steve moves toward the desk and forces himself to look away. “It’s no trouble at all.” He refrains from reaching out to touch the frame of the gun, but it’s a close thing. He shouldn’t be basically asking to reassemble Bucky’s — Sergeant Barnes’ — firearm. He stops himself from doing so.

When he looks back at Bucky — he’s not there. Steve frowns before he sees the bathroom light is on. Bucky comes out a few seconds later, and now the shadow around his eyes is deepened, and his lips are darker, the color of blood mixed with smoke. Steve catches a flash of black plastic with thin silver writing that Bucky shoves into his pocket, and he’s sure it’s lipstick.

“Thanks, Cap,” Bucky says, his smile warm and relaxed and _himself_ again. He picks up a leather jacket that was on the end of the bed. It’s not his usual jacket. This one’s almost as tight as the shirt, barely fitting across the breadth of Bucky’s shoulders. It hugs his forearms and sweeps in at the waist in a cut that Steve almost thinks means it’s a woman’s jacket, but it’s not precisely _feminine_. It’s a little unsettling, perhaps because it’s more appealing than Steve would’ve ever imagined, and it makes him want to stare.

“Sure.” Steve’s brain hasn’t really caught up. Bucky is practically out the door when Steve realizes he’s neither eaten nor drunk anything. A massage that deep will wreak havoc with his immune system if he doesn’t flush it out. “Barnes!”

It’s out before he can catch himself, and he’s no longer surprised to hear, “Sir?” called back a second before Bucky appears in the doorway, incongruously beautiful for his upright stance and the sharp look in his eyes.

Steve has to swallow to find his voice again. “Water before you go, and get something to eat first chance you get.”

The corner of Bucky’s dark lips twitches up. “Yes, sir,” he says, and he slips away.

Steve lets out a shaky breath, irrationally tempted to mention he didn’t dismiss Barnes, but he keeps his mouth shut. He hears Bucky’s footsteps upstairs in the kitchen, followed by the refrigerator door opening and closing. Ten seconds later — long enough to drink most of a bottle of water — Bucky’s footsteps cross the floor, and the front door clicks quietly shut.

Steve sinks into the desk chair and stares at the pieces of the gun.

 

~~~

 

The party is everything Bucky should love. It’s loud and dark, but it’s open enough that he can see the exits, and he can move through the crowd without having to shove bodies out of his way. He doesn’t feel closed-in. More to the point, this isn’t _his_ territory, so it’s not his fucking job to keep watch. He doesn’t flinch every time someone new walks into the club.

He’d put together his costume after about thirty seconds of thought. He’s had the leather pants for ten years now, though he hadn’t been able to fit into them until he’d lost weight in the hospital. The eyeshadow, he’d bought on a dare after Barton made one too many comments about Bucky being a broody goth.

The lipstick was a personal best for Bucky. He’d stolen it from Natasha’s purse two weeks ago, when the three of them had gone out to coffee. While Bucky had apparently been talking about Steve non-stop for an hour, Natasha had surreptitiously drawn little lipstick hearts all over his metal arm, too softly for Bucky’s sensors to catch. Pickpocketing was as close to revenge as Bucky dared to get with her.

For once, his arm doesn’t get stares and whispered questions about StarkTech — just curious or even admiring glances that he kind of likes. There’s a neurofeedback circuit hooked up to his brain that prevents the phantom limb pain he’d had when he’d first come to in the hospital, so the arm feels like it’s really _his_ , not some toaster stuck to his body.

Usually, people get all delicate and awkward about it... though not Steve. He didn’t hesitate to touch Bucky’s fingers when taking something from him, and while he hadn’t tried to give the left shoulder a useless massage tonight, he’d never _avoided_ it before.

“Oh, God, he’s at it again, obsessing on his landlord,” Barton groans from right behind Bucky. “Seriously, the two of you just need to get a room.”

“They already have a _house_ ,” Natasha adds.

Bucky turns, and his eyes go right to Natasha, who’s in a tight little tan sweater, a short tweed skirt, and a scarf, with a beret over a blond wig. She’s twirling a pearl-handled six-shooter in one hand. Barton’s in a black suit with narrow pinstriping and a fedora. Apparently, they’re going for a bank robbery theme this year.

Before Bucky can smack Barton’s head (though not Natasha’s), they each grab one arm — Barton on the left, Nat on the right — and start dragging him towards the bar. “You came in alone,” Barton says, punching Bucky’s left shoulder without letting go. “Chickened out of asking him for a date?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky tells him.

“Ignore him, Buck,” Nat advises. “Clint’s pissed because he’s not getting any tonight. I have my period.”

“Nat!” Barton groans. “Oversharing!”

Natasha leans on the bar to look past Bucky. “Yes, because it’s shocking to imagine an adult woman would actually menstruate on occasion.”

Bucky laughs and turns his back to Barton, asking, “You sure you don’t want to ditch this asshole for me, Nat?”

“I’m only with him —” She cuts off, grabs hold of Bucky’s shirt collar, and jerks him down a couple of inches to her eye-level. _“Is that my lipstick you’re wearing?”_

After one startled second, Bucky says, “Barton gave it to me. Said it brings out my eyes.”

Natasha shoves Bucky into Barton and rakes them both with a glare that nearly strips the flesh from their bones. “One of these days...” she warns, and then trails off into poetic swearing in her native language.

Barton elbows Bucky off him and huffs, “Fucking bastard.”

Bucky grins, smugly pleased to have diverted attention from his ongoing, one-sided love affair with Steve. “Same to you, pal.”


	6. Chapter 6

Two days of rain leaves Steve edgy and wanting to get out. In this weather, it’s too cold for him to run first thing in the morning, especially when the house is warm and the coffee’s fresh. But that’s lazy thinking, so when there’s finally a clear morning, he goes for a longer-than-usual run. The late sunrise has his schedule off, and he gets back to find Bucky’s motorcycle gone, which is a disappointment but not a surprise. It’s his early day to go to DC. Steve just hopes he’ll be careful if it rains again, since he’s always refused Steve’s offer to borrow the truck.

Ten o’clock rolls around, and Steve’s ignoring another job offer that Nick Fury’s bullied Agent Hill into sending, probably in the hopes that she can sweet-talk Steve into accepting. He goes to file the email in his saved-but-ignored folder when his phone rings. Bucky’s number lights up on the display.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Is this — _Stop!_ ” an unfamiliar man’s voice snaps, but there’s laughter in his tone, not anger. In the background, Steve can hear Bucky swearing up a storm, but none of it is in English; he suspects it’s Russian. “Is this Captain Rogers?” the man asks.

Steve sits up straighter and shifts tone to just shy of his Captain voice. “Who may I ask is calling?”

Bucky sounds like he’s now issuing dire threats. The stranger says, “That’s not nice, Buck. How is that _possibly_ nice? This is Sergeant Barton. Call me Clint. We’re —”

“Steve, you can ignore him!” Bucky shouts.

Barton counters with words that have to be in Chinese, and then says, somewhat sweetly, “Please don’t, Cap. I’m the _nice_ one. We wanted to invite you —”

“I will _shoot_ you, Barton!”

“— out to the range with us this afternoon,” Barton continues cheerfully. “I’m assuming you can shoot, given you reassembled his SIG, no problem.”

Steve feels like he just had the wind knocked out of him. He’d wrestled with himself about putting the gun back together before locking it away, and Bucky hadn’t said a word when Steve had handed it back the next day in one piece. Yet clearly Bucky felt okay telling Barton about it. And Barton, about whom Steve has only heard war stories, almost nothing current, knows that Steve goes by ‘Cap’.

“About as much of a problem as it would be to _dis_ assemble you, Barton.” The moment Steve finishes speaking, he regrets allowing Barton to get a rise out of him.

Barton cackles like a mad crow. “Oh, now I see why he likes —” he says before he cuts out with an _oof_. There’s a clatter and more shouting in the background, and what Steve guesses is a scuffle for control of the phone.

And then, panting for breath, Bucky says, “I’m _so_ fucking sorry.”

Something about the sound of his voice — the hint of embarrassment, the remnants of fierce struggle and laughter in it, the curse and the deep breaths — has Steve holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut to drink up every last note in it.

_Breathe, Rogers!_

“It’s fine. Did _you_ need anything?” He doesn’t want to ask for the invite to be repeated, and he’s not even sure he’ll accept if it is. Mostly because he’s not sure about Barton.

“Maybe help hiding the body,” Bucky says, still laughing. “I’m sorry for letting him bug —”

“You don’t get out of it that easily!” Barton cuts in over the sound of Bucky gasping as if he’d just taken a hit to the gut. There’s another scuffle, and then Barton says, more clearly, “Rifle range up on seventy, two p.m.”

“You haven’t seen him, Barton!” Bucky shouts distantly, as if Barton’s running off with the phone. “He doesn’t need any fucking help burying you!”

Well, that’s a vote of confidence Steve isn’t expecting. He doesn’t have any idea what this Barton kid looks like, so he really doesn’t want to have to kick his ass, but it’s nice to know that Bucky thinks he could.

Steve decides to hang up on the mayhem, but he can’t decide if he should accept the invitation, as he isn’t sure it was extended in good faith. Or that Bucky even wants him there. He thinks about texting to confirm, but knows there’s no way to verify the text would be coming from Bucky himself.

In the end, his curiosity — about Barton and about their accuracy with firearms —  gets the better of him. He decides to go, if only so that he can help Bucky escape if necessary. He has no doubt that the two of them working together can outmaneuver Barton and any allies he might have.

 

~~~

 

Death threats are pointless. Bucky and Barton have so much spilled blood, shared blood, and owed blood between them that every argument falls into the same pattern of bickering — or, if they’re somewhere with grass and no cops, brawling. In this case, the grass is weedy and has tree roots right under the surface, making it unpleasant to be on the receiving end of a tackle, but Barton’s a damned weasel when it comes to escaping a choke-hold, and Bucky’s too concerned with getting his hands on his phone.

Too late. Steve’s hung up.

“He’s not coming. You’re safe,” Barton says, sounding profoundly disappointed.

Bucky hides a sigh of relief. He’s _just_ got Steve hopefully thinking he’s normal, or mostly normal. Exposing Steve to Barton will strip away that illusion. “You owe me lunch, asshole,” he threatens instead.

“Yeah, yeah. Put it on my tab,” Barton counters, and they cross the back parking lot and head into Barton’s gym, where Bucky sometimes uses a guest pass whenever Barton can get him one.

It’s a light workout today, meant to burn off the stress of group therapy. Bucky runs and does the upper body exercises that the surgeons insist are critical to maintaining the muscle mass to support his cybernetic arm. He’ll be doing them for the rest of his life. He figures he’ll be the best-built centenarian on the damned planet.

Natasha joins them for lunch, looking like the world’s hottest librarian. She works for a government agency so classified that even the CIA doesn’t know it exists, and she once threatened to whisper its name in Bucky’s ear just so she’d have the legal excuse to kill him. Bucky hopes she was kidding and tones back his teasing just for her.

Case in point: “You’ve got cat hair on your jacket,” he says as she sits down with them. He doesn’t mention the fur on her skirt because he doesn’t want one of those killer heels to kick in his face.

“How’s your boyfriend?” she shoots back as she leans in to let Barton kiss her cheek.

“I hate you both,” Bucky says, even though it’s a concession. By this time, six weeks have passed, and he hasn’t had a single date or even _tried_ for one. They’ve all realized that Bucky’s got it bad for Steve. This morning’s game is probably Barton’s way of being “helpful.”

“He’s meeting us at the range later. Wanna come?” Barton asks, giving Natasha his most charming smile.

Bucky stares at Barton. “He’s _not_ —”

“He’ll be there.”

“You fucking _liar,_ ” Bucky accuses. “You said he wouldn’t come!”

Barton’s smile is innocent and angelic, and Bucky’s not fooled for a second. “I lied. Nat, come with us so we can see the guy who’s stolen Buck’s heart.”

Bucky slumps in his chair. “Fuck off.”

Natasha smiles like a shark. “Sounds like fun. I’ll call the office, take the rest of the day off.” She stands up and kisses Barton’s ear.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To get my guns. Can’t let you boys have all the fun,” she says, and saunters off.

Bucky and Barton exchange a look across the table. Barton’s grin has taken on a sickly edge. There’s nothing polite about Bucky’s smile. “If your girlfriend dumps you for Steve, I will laugh my ass off.”

Barton winces. “Then we shoot each other. Deal?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

 

~~~

 

By quarter to two, Bucky’s more nervous than he was on his first solo op. He has to tell himself not to throw up or ‘accidentally’ shoot Barton in the foot as an excuse to go to the hospital. He can’t get comfortable on his shooting blanket, and he swears the sun’s shifted position more than it should have for mid-November, because even squinting doesn’t clear his vision. He has to switch from clear lenses to the dark grays, which always plays hell with him for the first half-dozen shots.

One bay over, Barton fires off a shot that Bucky knows is perfect, without even checking his binoculars.

The only mercy is that Natasha’s down on the law enforcement officers’ training course, having sweet-talked the rangemaster into letting her play. Bucky grins, thinking of the look that’ll be on the asshole’s face once he realizes she scored perfect and probably beat the range’s record time. She’s good with a rifle, but she’s downright terrifying with two pistols.

He rests his head on the stock of his baby, the rifle he spent three months’ pay to buy and customize. He keeps it here only because he doesn’t want to freak Steve out by bringing an arsenal into the basement. He breathes deep, smelling the wool of his old blanket. The desert sand is embedded in it, with hints of pine resin from the mountains. With his hearing protectors on, the sounds of the range fade to dim thunder.

He snuggles up to the rifle — that’s the only way to put it — and closes one eye. He’s aware of his pulse, not beating in his chest but thumping against the edge of his cybernetic arm, where blood vessels have been rerouted. It had taken him three months to get anywhere near his old accuracy because of that, but now he’s learned to use it.

He double-taps his target, though not with the speed an automatic rifle would provide. This one’s bolt-action, and he’s got to clear the shell after each shot. Makes it easier to police his brass that way. Old habits die hard, and no sniper wants to leave the evidence of where he’s made his nest.

When he leans over to look through the binoculars, he sees Barton’s worked through his first four targets on his page. Center-shots, all of them. Bastard.

Bucky hadn’t been trying for accuracy. He feels calmer now, so he takes his time with his third shot, and before he’s even squeezed the trigger, he knows in his blood that this one’s dead on target. Once he fires, he lifts his head to check —

“Nice work, Barnes.”

The deep voice shatters his concentration. He rolls onto his back and stares stupidly up at Steve — who is fucking _gorgeous_ in the early afternoon sunlight. Even the yellow shooting glasses somehow look hot on him, not dumb. He’s got his hearing protectors dangling from one hand, not that a single hair is out of place to show he’d been wearing them. His T-shirt’s stretched tight across his chest, and his brown leather bomber jacket gapes open. As Bucky lays there at his feet, all he can think of is asking if Steve’s the prize for his shooting skills.

And then Barton appears like a caffeinated mongoose, interposing himself between Bucky and Steve. He snaps to attention and salutes, and Bucky hopes to God that Barton remembers some semblance of military respect.

“Sir!”

Steve returns the salute with a politely curious expression.

The instant he does, Barton breaks position and practically bounces on his toes. “You must be Captain Rogers,” he says, and though his back’s turned, Bucky knows he’s now grinning like a fiend.

“And you must be Clint Barton.” Steve extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.” It actually sounds sincere somehow, though Bucky notices the lack of rank.

“Nice to meet you,” Barton says, not to be outdone. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Fearing Barton might actually start reciting some of what Bucky has spilled, Bucky scrambles to his feet, careful not to kick the rifle off its bipod and sandbags. He pulls off his glasses — and _fuck_ , without the shadowed haze of the lenses, Steve is that much more stunning.

“Hi.” That’s all Bucky manages, and when he realizes he can’t get another word out, he seriously debates texting Natasha to ask her to come shoot him now.

Barton turns a truly wicked grin on Bucky and steps back, pointedly turning their positions from a triangle into a two-plus-one. “Uh huh. Knew it,” the bastard says in Russian, and takes another step back towards his shooting bay.

Steve turns a questioning smile on Bucky and steps in to speak low. “Did I not pass muster?”

“You —”

“Just looking out for my best friend here,” Barton chimes in. “Only the best for our Bucky, you know.”

“I don’t actually know him,” Bucky tells Steve in sheer desperation. “I paid him to come here so you’d think I have friends.” Instead of taking offense, Barton howls with laughter.

Steve chuckles while looking back and forth between them with an expression that seems genuinely amused and not quite intimidated. Assessing, maybe. “You can’t fool me. Army brothers start to resemble each other. And you two laugh like you’re from the same litter.”

 _“I’m the pretty one,”_ they both insist at the same time, because sometimes they really do share a brain.

Steve purses his lips and shakes his head, completely failing to banish the absolutely adorable grin from his face. Bucky stares in fascination, because Steve’s got little laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes, and his mouth does just _sinful_ things when he can’t hide his smile.

Barton comes to no one’s rescue, interrupting with, “So, you gonna stand there and let me show off?”

“Fu—” Bucky cuts off, biting his lip. He shakes his head and puts his glasses back on, saying, “If you’re done warming up, we can get serious, Barton.”

“Ready whenever you are.”

Bucky looks over at Steve, thinking that there’s no way he’ll be able to compensate for his heartbeat. But fuck it. It’s not like they’re actually on an op, aiming at live targets. “Think you can keep Barton from cheating, Cap?”

“My initial assessment is that’s damn near impossible, even if his commanding officer was standing behind him.”

“Then stay with me for luck,” Bucky teases as he turns to sprawl back down, only then realizing the view Steve’s got, with Bucky propped up on his elbows, legs spread as if he’s showing off his ass on purpose.

He closes his eyes, ignoring Barton’s mad laugh, and decides to just give up. If he’s going to keep putting his foot in his mouth, he might as well have fun with it. So he glances back, and adds, “Enjoy the view. This is the prettiest range in Maryland.”

 

~~~

 

 _Prettiest range in Maryland,_ Steve thinks as he puts his hearing protectors back on. He’s struggling to watch the targets and not Bucky’s body. It doesn’t help that Bucky’s thighs are solid muscle under that denim, and his ass is gorgeously rounded and tight.

All play aside, though, when Barton and Bucky finally stop snickering, they’re accurate. Steve takes Bucky’s binoculars and switches from one set of targets to the other, confirming. They’re _terrifyingly_ accurate. No wonder why Agent Hill had been interested in Steve’s assessment of Barnes.

They’re consistent, too, as they move from one target to the next, never rushing, never firing too early or twitching at the wrong moment. “Professional” is the term that comes to mind. “Hitman” follows directly after.

Then Steve feels a prickle at the back of his neck, old instincts coming back to him. He turns and looks back to see a woman — a _gorgeous_ woman, red hair artfully mussed to show where she’d been wearing the hearing protectors dangling from her arm. She’s standing back behind the reloading tables where Bucky and Barton have their bags, but she’s watching Steve, not them.

Steve nods politely and extends the binoculars with raised eyebrows and a mild smile. She circles around the table and takes the binoculars. He looks her over quickly: jeans, T-shirt, denim jacket, and two pistols at her hips — Glock 26s, Steve notes. Clearly not here to just observe. She’s got short-trimmed nails, and her hands look deceptively strong.

Instead of raising the binoculars, she extends her hand to Steve. “Captain Rogers?” When he nods and takes her hand, she smiles and says softly, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Natasha Romanoff. I’m a friend of Nick’s.”

She’s S.H.I.E.L.D. Fascinating. The press of her hand is professional and strong as he expected. They both hold on a hair longer than normal, assessing one another. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Romanoff.” Then the first name clicks. He tries not to allow a stab of jealousy to hit him as he thinks about the last time he’d heard it. “I believe you’re also a friend of Sergeant Barnes’. Does that mean you know Barton as well?”

“I’m off-duty. Please, call me Nat,” she invites, throwing a smile Barton’s way. “And I’m only with Barton for his kittens.”

 _“I heard that!”_ Barton yells back just as he shoots, and Steve gets the sneaking suspicion that she timed her words intentionally.

Bucky confirms as he barks out a sharp, victorious laugh. Apparently, they’re not neck-and-neck in their scoring anymore.

Barton throws out accusations of cheating and collusions, to which Bucky retorts in Chinese. Barton’s answer is in what sounds like an Arabic dialect, though Steve doesn’t know which one.

Natasha just sighs and gives Steve a long-suffering look. “They’ll be at it all day. Want to see the law enforcement course? It’s cute.”

Now that he has confirmation that Natasha is definitely taken, and by _Clint,_ his grin comes easily, and he nods his assent. Then the grin fades as he berates himself for feeling better for knowing that.

_None of your business, Rogers!_

He glances back to get one last look at Bucky, hoping it won’t make him blush, before following Natasha away from the rifle range, towards a long building that might be a converted barn.

“I meant what I said about off-duty,” Natasha says very softly as she walks. “I’ve heard your name kicked around HQ, but I’m not in recruiting — not for you or Bucky.”

“Thanks. I’m not sure what it is about the word ‘no’ that Nick seems deaf to, but it’ll be nice not to have to say it to you as well.”

She gives him a sly grin. “How many people do you think _ever_ say no to him, Cap? Playing hard to get is the best way to keep him interested.” Her grin turns more open and just a little hopeful as she adds, “And since you’ve learned your lesson about saying ‘no’, what would you say if I asked to watch you take a round on the LEO course?”

Steve gives her his most winning, sincere smile as he answers. “No saying ‘no’ to the lady today. I give my word.”


	7. Chapter 7

The entire ride home, Bucky’s almost dizzy with relief. The afternoon — the dreaded _meet the friends_ — went better than he’d ever expected. He beat Barton by two points, which is always nice, but more than that, they didn’t hate Steve and he didn’t seem, at least, to hate them. The only bad part of the day at all was that apparently Steve did _something_ over at the handgun barn, and Bucky had missed it.

Still, he’s in a ridiculously good mood, to the point where he actually follows Steve home instead of racing ahead. Steve keeps to a sedate five miles above the limit, which is fifteen miles per too slow for Bucky’s liking, but even then, he doesn’t care. He’s in no rush to get back to an empty house.

And _that’s_ the sort of thought to shock him right out of his boots. Is that what Sam had meant about Bucky needing stability and permanency in his life? It can’t be. It’s been... what, seven or eight weeks since he and Steve had first met?

He tries to puzzle it out the rest of the way home, but he’s got no answers by the time they pull into the driveway. He parks next to Steve’s bike, dismounts, and picks up his saddlebags — gym clothes and sneakers — and his helmet.

“You shower first,” he offers, knowing the hot water heater can’t stand the strain of two concurrent showers. “I’ll start coffee?”

Steve’s smile is grateful and makes his eyes glint. “Please. Thanks.”

Bucky manages not to stare for too long, though he’s pretty sure at least a second or two pass. He goes inside, hangs his helmet and jacket, and heads for the kitchen to scrub his hands. Cleaning his metal hand takes up enough attention that he can _sort of_ not listen to the pipes rattle, right until he hears the shower curtain rings on the bar and knows Steve’s getting into the shower.

Unhelpfully, Bucky’s got an excellent imagination.

He gets the coffee ready and retreats downstairs. Then he goes back up to the kitchen, because he didn’t pick up dinner, so he needs to rifle through the delivery menus. He almost changes his mind _again_ , because he’s still got his saddlebags over one shoulder, and that’s when he gives up altogether.

He’s distracted. He’s _very_ distracted, because Steve is gorgeous and nice and apparently a kick-ass shot, and that hits every one of Bucky’s buttons all at once. And other than one backrub on Halloween, Steve hasn’t made a single advance.

Bucky slinks downstairs, drops the saddlebags on his desk, and strips off his clothes. He’d take a cold shower, because at this point he needs one, but the water pressure change would fuck with the upstairs temperature. And contrary to popular belief, Bucky _can_ be considerate.

He sprawls on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, but even the slight damp chill clinging to the basement doesn’t do anything to banish the images in his head. By now, he’s seen Steve in his underwear three times, so he’s got firsthand knowledge of his legs and a pretty damned good idea about his cock.

Which _definitely_ doesn’t help.

He feels fourteen again, which was when he’d realized that he was attracted to _people_ , not just girls or guys or cheerleaders or football players or what-the-fuck-ever. The closest he’s ever got to categorizing it is that he’s got a competence kink. Someone who’s _brilliant_ at whatever they do — school, sports, whatever — is exactly the type to catch Bucky’s eye, probably because he’d never been really good at anything until he’d got his hands on a sniper rifle for the first time back in Basic.

Barton and Nat have been, to date, the biggest tests of his self-control. Until Steve.

Because Steve is gorgeous, polite, a fucking _hero_ , and apparently good enough with a handgun that even Nat had been impressed into silence.

Bucky’s only halfway paying attention when he hears the pipes _thunk_. He waits about three seconds before going for his shower. The benefit of the basement apartment is that the hot water heater is just meters away, so he’s able to get under the spray almost at once. Then at least he’s got an excuse to get his hands between his legs, and he sags back against the tiled wall in relief, trying not to wonder if Steve’s ever wondered what the cybernetic hand would feel like. Bucky sure as hell had, back in the hospital. It was logical. And he would very, very much like to show Steve just how dexterous he is with it.

Which is all it takes. He has to bring up his other arm so he can bite and keep himself quiet. And he’s had so damned much practice at that over the last few weeks that when he comes, it’s barely more satisfying than scratching a mosquito bite.

This, he decides grimly as he goes about cleaning up, is hell.

When he finally goes back upstairs, dressed and hopefully looking a little less desperate, he sees Steve at the kitchen table with his coffee. It’s an everyday sight, the sort of thing that normally wouldn’t make Bucky look twice, but today it stops him in his tracks, because he _really_ sees Steve. He sees the sweep of his eyelashes and his strong hands around his coffee mug and the little half-smile he gets before he turns to say something, and Bucky realizes things have just gone from bad to worse.

It’s one thing to be in lust with Captain Rogers, military hero and landlord. It’s something else entirely to be — maybe — in _love_ , which is a state of mind Bucky’s managed to happily avoid. Entanglements like that usually send him running the minute his date-of-the-week starts hinting at the L-word.

“Pizza, or should I go pick something up?” he says, avoiding looking at Steve as he goes to get coffee.

“We could just make a quick stir fry. We’ve got enough vegetables, and despite popular belief, I _can_ cook things other than breakfast food.” His smirk is almost impish, and Bucky’s heart hits him in the throat.

It takes a sip of dark, wonderful coffee to snap Bucky out of his daze. “Whatever you want,” he says, almost choking. And even though he almost never takes sugar in his coffee, he goes for a spoon. He’s proud he doesn’t fumble and drop it as he adds four scoops of sugar, because he suspects he’ll need to be alert if he’s meant to survive sitting at the dinner table with Steve. There’s not much more of this he can take, after all. He’s only human.

 

~~~

 

Steve has, over the last several weeks, come to know Bucky almost as well as he knows himself. Bucky’s gone from being a feral, half-tamed dog, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, to what might be Steve’s closest friend — even closer than Sam. Bucky smiles and laughs easily now, and if he’s cut back on his flirting, Steve’s decided it’s because he no longer feels he needs to hide behind a facade of cocky insolence. After seeing how Bucky and Barton are together — brother-close but not intimate, with snark that never lets up — Steve suspects that he might be the only person in Bucky’s life right now that gets to see him with his public mask off.

So he’s not entirely surprised when Bucky disappears as soon as he rinses his dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. The excuse is legitimate, and Steve is certain that Bucky actually is cleaning the SIG he’d used after he and Barton finished up on the rifle range, but the timing is telling.

Meeting the friends went well, Steve thinks, even if Bucky had to endure merciless ribbing. Apparently he mentions Steve to them quite a lot.

Which feels _really_ good. If Bucky feels that comfortable with him, maybe there is a chance the closeness between them could become intimacy. Barton certainly hinted as much. Though that could just be the way they tease each other. It’s hard to see any of this clearly. If Steve had anyone else to talk about this — _Admit it, Rogers!_ — crush with...

No. Steve still wouldn’t say anything. What _could_ he even say? That he wishes his stunningly good-looking, terrifyingly accurate, possible government assassin of a housemate would stop teasing him to distraction just by existing and do nothing ever again but fuck him into the floor until he’s shouting his release? Yeah, not gonna happen.

For the next two days, he barely sees Bucky at all. When they do share the breakfast table, it’s full of friendly conversations and averted eyes. The charged distance makes Steve nervous, keeping him from focusing on anything and making him second-guess everything. On the third morning, when Steve hasn’t changed from his running clothes, Bucky takes one look at him and goes right back downstairs. Steve gives up trying to figure out what’s going on with him.

Then fate decides to give them a reprieve, at least for one night.

“I’ll be gone a couple of days,” Bucky says over spaghetti he’s brought from their favorite Italian place in DC. “I need to overnight at the hospital for them to do some neuro testing.”

Steve frowns and wonders what exactly that entails. It keeps him from acknowledging the disappointment that he shouldn’t feel. “Okay.” He looks at Bucky not looking at him and keeps his voice neutral. “I can give you a ride if they don’t want you driving.”

Bucky has to chew and swallow the tangle of spaghetti he’d loaded onto his fork before he can answer. “It’s no trouble. I’ll make Barton do it. Payback for him making you come out to the range last week,” he adds with a grin that disappears as he finally puts a napkin to use.

“I don’t know. That was pretty fun, actually. Your friends are insane, but…” Steve smiles at the memory of the three stunningly good sharpshooters and their rapid-fire insults shot over the sound of their equally fast target practice in the pistol range.

“At least Barton didn’t sniff you,” Bucky says, politely waiting to finish speaking before he crunches into a piece of garlic bread, scattering crumbs everywhere. He chews and gestures with the bread, adding, “He did that to Nat.” Only then does he swallow and grin again. “He told me he was in love with her as I was setting his busted nose.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and he tries not to snort milk through his nose as he chuckles with his mouth full. He swallows and laughs through his response. “The fact that she didn’t kill him seems to imply she felt the same way.”

“She didn’t hit him with her purse or something,” Bucky says, and an impish light comes into his eyes. “She kicked him. In the face.”

“Of course she did.” Steve shakes his head, half in humor, half to get the image of Natasha’s legs out of his head. They could kill a man. “How’d they meet?”

“Barton and I were at the VA for some paperwork, and she was there, looking at the directory on the wall, by the side entrance?” When Steve nods — it’s not too far from Sam’s usual meeting room — Bucky continues, “So Barton, fucking moron, follows her up to the stairs, then says something about being in love, only he says it in Russian. Then he just _sniffs_ her, and next thing I know, he’s practically eating her shoe, and she’s asking _me_ if Barton slipped his leash or something.” Bucky shrugs and adds, “If it’s not love, she’s got some weird hobbies.”

“Did he know she speaks Russian?” Steve has no idea how much the boys know about Nat’s affiliations, and he knows only what she’s told him — he tried to do a bit of digging with no success — but he has a couple educated guesses, knowing Fury.

Bucky laughs. “Of course not. He was thinking she’d be impressed. Then again, she never has to correct our grammar, so it’s all good. I think her grandparents are from somewhere in Russia.”

Steve shakes his head again, this time at the casual grace of a natural polyglot. “How many languages do you yahoos know, anyway?”

“‘Yahoos’? This from Mr. All American Midwest or something, huh?” Bucky challenges. Then he slouches back in his seat and drawls, “You gotta problem with Brooklyn English, punk?”

“You speak my native tongue, too? Who taught you that?” Steve leans in, switching to his old neighborhood accent, the feel of it in his mouth like home.

Startled, Bucky sits forward, staring at Steve. “The _fuck?_ ” he blurts eloquently. “No fuckin’ way.”

“What?” Steve gestures with his hands confrontationally. “You kiss your mother with that mouth, Barnes?”

Bucky’s eyes take on that impish light again, and he stands up. They sit at one corner of the table, which means he’s in arm’s reach, and he takes advantage of that now, grabbing hold of Steve’s shirt collar. “Now you gotta problem with my kissing?” he challenges, leaning in.

Steve swallows his heart back into his chest where it bangs hard enough that Bucky must feel it against his forearm, and speaks only loud enough to cross the alarmingly short divide between their mouths. “I dunno, should I?”

If Bucky answers, Steve doesn’t hear it, because another second passes, and then Bucky’s kissing him. It’s almost chaste and the hottest thing imaginable at the same moment, because Bucky’s lips are every bit as soft and welcoming as Steve had fantasized. And though Bucky doesn’t open his mouth, there’s something warmly intimate about it, the way he turns into the kiss and how his hand relaxes on Steve’s shirt without letting go.

Until he _does_ let go, and their eyes meet for just an instant, like an electrical connection arcing. It runs straight through Steve, down to the base of his spine, and the arousal spike takes his breath away. Then Bucky pulls back and grabs his plate and mostly-empty beer, and he takes both away from the table.

Steve sits completely still and watches Bucky move as if he’s watching a film, the sounds of glass against ceramic as sharp as the visual of him walking away. Steve can feel the heat rising from his neck to his face, his lips already burning and wet because he couldn’t help tasting them. The faint hint of beer makes his stomach roil in embarrassment. He’s sure he hadn’t seen regret in Bucky’s eyes, but he’s already at the sink, scraping his plate.

Without ever looking back at the table, Bucky loads the plate into the dishwasher, runs the garbage disposal, and then goes for the basement door. He’s back to his habit of moving silently, as if trying to be invisible.

“Buck.”

“I’ll, uh, see you in a couple days,” Bucky says quickly, as if afraid to hear the rest of what Steve has to say.

But Steve didn’t have anything in his head; he’d just wanted Bucky to look at him.

The _click_ of the basement door breaks the spell, and Steve can breathe again. Then he leans forward and pushes his plate aside so he can rest his forehead on the table. He hears the downstairs apartment close and lock, and the sound strikes him as so very final. He doesn’t move until his breathing and body are back under his control, and then he walks up to his room and flops face-down on top of his bed.

He doesn’t move again ’til morning.


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Bucky says at too-early-a.m. when he gets into Barton’s car.

Barton gives Bucky a _no-shit_ look that’s visible even through his night-black sunglasses. “I’m the one who drove out here _in traffic_ to pick your ass up, and _you’re_ the fucking idiot?”

“Shut up. Drive,” Bucky answers, terrified that Steve will come home from his morning run while they’re idling in Barton’s tricked-out off-road Jeep. And then there will be offers of coffee and breakfast, and Barton’s never turned down food _in his life_ , and Bucky will be trapped at the table where —

— where —

“God,” he groans, letting his head thump back against the headrest as Barton finally gets them moving.

“What happened?” A rare note of seriousness comes into Barton’s voice as he asks, “It’s not routine testing, is it? Is something wrong?”

That shocks Bucky out of his self-loathing. He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his hair, turning to say, “No. No, the arm’s fine.”

“You don’t _look_ fine. What’d you do? Oh, shit. You didn’t shoot another sheep, did you?”

“That was _one time_ , asshole,” Bucky snaps back, wondering if Barton will _ever_ let him live that down. “And it was coming right at us.”

 _“It was a sheep.”_ Barton grins, getting into the rhythm of it now. “What was it going to do? Be _fuzzy_ at us until we died of wool allergies?”

“I kissed Steve.”

Barton slams unnecessarily hard on the brakes. He turns and dips his chin to stare at Bucky over his sunglasses.

Bucky slumps down in the seat.

“And?” Barton finally prompts.

“And nothing.”

Barton stares at him suspiciously for a few more seconds, then gets back to driving. “And nothing,” he muses. “So this is the first time since you were... what, twelve, thirteen, that you kissed someone and _didn’t_ get laid?”

Bucky’s smirk has a sharp, almost vicious edge. “You saying you want some, Barton?”

“Huh?”

“2007, Bahrain. Base Christmas party. You and I crashed it, and there was that —”

“You fucking even _think_ of that goddamn mistletoe, and I will shoot you. _Twice_.”

Bucky laughs. “I try not to think about it. Seriously, Barton, what the hell does Natasha see in you? ’Cause it’s not your kissing.”

“I was drunk!”

“You were _not_ , because it was a dry party, asshole.”

_“I was faking it!”_

“And that’s what Nat sees in you, huh?”

“I’m leaving you at the hospital. You can walk home.”

Bucky smiles, feeling better, even though none of this helps him solve the real problem. Because one kiss isn’t enough. It’s never going to be enough again. Because he could’ve been content — sort of — with _imagining_ Steve’s kiss, but now he’s felt it. Tasted it. And he wants more so bad that he knows it’s just a matter of time until he does something even more stupid.

“When he kicks me out, I’m moving back in with you.”

Barton shrugs as Bucky knew he would. “Whatever. Just change the litter boxes.”

Bucky shakes his head and tries to ignore the fact that a little part of him feels better for having a backup plan, even if it does involve fifty-pound bags of fresh-scented clay. “You and your fucking cats.”

 

~~~

 

Sam Wilson is at a window table at the diner that’s become a regular meeting place for him and Steve. The waitresses know them and bring coffee refills without having to be asked. More important, Steve and Sam know the baking schedule, so they can plan their visits around their favorite pies — always a good subject for debate on a quiet day.

Not that today’s a quiet day.

They sit through burgers and fries, with Sam catching Steve up on the usual politics he sees working at the VA and Steve trying to figure out how to bring up his problem. His five-foot-eleven, hundred-seventy-pound, dark-haired, blue-eyed problem.

And just as Steve’s decided that this can wait, because they’re already up to poking unnecessarily at the dessert menu, Sam says, “So, what’d you _really_ want to talk about?”

“Nothing.” It comes out too quick and Steve keeps his head down, staring at the price of iced tea, until he can breathe through the idiotic moment of panic. He raises his head, and the look on Sam’s face has him regretting this whole meal and much of his life up to it. “Sam, I —”

And Sam just _stares_ at him with that look like he can see right into Steve’s mind. One brow twitches up, and his expression changes, as if to silently ask, _Do you really want to try lying to me?_

Steve sighs, exasperated. “Why do you ask if you already know? I notice you haven’t mentioned him once.”

Slowly, a grin appears, bright and pleased, as if Steve had just figured out the solution to a somewhat complex math problem. “You mean, _you_ haven’t mentioned him. For two months, it’s all ‘Bucky this’ and ‘Bucky that’ until today.”

“Look, this is all your fault. If you hadn’t —” Steve looks down at the patterned formica and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about him today. He’s not around, and I’m taking a break from…”

“Crushing on him like a lovesick teenager?”

Steve just gawps at him, open mouthed, for a second. “I’m not a…”

_Don’t lie to yourself, Rogers!_

Steve lets out a muttered, “Shit.”

Sam grins even more, because Steve _never_ swears like that. Mercifully, Sam turns away and calls the waitress over to order dessert for himself. “And an extra-big slice for Steve here, with whipped cream,” he adds helpfully. “Steve’s got himself a _special someone_ in his life.”

“Steve!” the waitress coos, and smacks him on the shoulder. “And you didn’t bring her to meet me? I’m offended!”

Steve can only manage a weak smile as she winks at him and turns away to the other tables.

Then he turns back to Sam. If there was ever a moment in his life where Steve wishes he could shoot lasers from his eyes, this is it. It takes a big breath to banish the thought. “One, _you_ are paying for lunch. Two, things are actually horrible right now, and I came to you because I feel awful. Don’t make me walk away because you’re making it worse.” He keeps his voice as low as he can, but there’s the hint of a shake in it that makes him wince.

“Steve...” Sam’s voice goes gentle and understanding. He rests his forearms on the table and leans forward. “You’ve been _smiling_ the whole time we’re sitting here, man. Yeah, you’ve barely said two words, but I’ve never seen you smile like this. Let yourself be a little happy.”

“Happy because he kissed me and then ran away as if I’d kicked him, and now he’ll be gone for two days? I’m a mess. It’s been good to sit here and get out of my head and gossip with you, but…” He leans back and shakes his head, bringing his hands to rest on the edge of the table.

Sam lets out a sigh and looks down, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You wanna talk about it, or should I just shut up and let you eat your pie in peace?”

“I don’t even know. What I have to say, you seem to already know.”

“Shit.” This time, Sam says nothing as their waitress brings over slices of pie and fresh forks. After she’s gone, Sam picks up his fork and twirls it in his fingers, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Right, so, they tell us not to jump the gun and make guesses, only I screwed up. I really am sorry. It’s just, every time you’d get quiet and stop _worrying_ , you’d get this grin... I’m an asshole. Go on, say it.”

Steve puts a forkful of pie in his mouth to buy time. Can he really say it out loud?

“I’m head-over-heels for him, and he’s completely out of my league, and he _lives in my house._  And I think I ruined everything last night with what was basically a dare.” Steve reaches for his glass of milk. “ _And_ you’re an asshole.”

When Steve finally looks up, Sam is staring at him, mouth open. Sam blinks a couple of times and finally says, “Okay, you know I just meant for you to say that last part, right?”

Before Steve can either die of embarrassment or combust from anger, the absurdity of it hits him. He lets out his tension in a laughing huff. “I think I figured that out halfway through, but it felt good to finally say it, so I went ahead and finished it.” He picks up his fork again and takes another bite of pie.

Sam looks proud. “It’s all good. And I don’t think you’ve _ruined_ anything. Hell, I think the exact opposite, ’cause the way you two talk _about_ each other needs to turn into talking _to_ each other, before I start feeling like the middle-man in a threesome. And no offense, but I don’t like either of you enough for that.”

“Wait.” Steve points at Sam with his fork. “He talks about me to _you?_ ”

Sam kicks his shin under the table. “Did I say that? ’Cause me saying that violates all sorts of rules. So shut up, eat your pie, and think of what _you’re_ gonna say to _him_.”

Steve goes to stab another bit of pie with his fork but stops before he reaches it. “But he’s at the hospital until tomorrow.”

“See? It works out,” Sam says proudly, as if he’d arranged everything himself. “You’ve got yourself time to think.”

 

~~~

 

It’s getting towards late November, and nights are cold. The house’s heater works pretty well, but Steve’s got a fireplace that’s now in working order and certified safe, thanks to an inspection he’d had done. He even takes the truck out to get some firewood from a farm not too far away. Stacking it by the side of the house helps keep his mind off Bucky in the hospital and whatever they’re doing to him.

When dinnertime rolls around, however, it’s impossible not to miss him while staring at his empty chair and eating leftover takeout. From the container. Besides, Steve’s sick of blocking out Sam’s voice in his head.

_Take it logically, Rogers._

Sam says Bucky talks about him. His friends implied the same thing the other day. Steve is damned certain it was Bucky who leaned in and kissed him, not the other way around, and from the very first he’s made it clear he’s interested in men as well as women. He’d even invited Steve out to a club one night. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to deny himself anything he wants, so, if he actually wants it, why did he walk away last night?

Jesus. If only Steve had just gone after him. But he hadn’t. Because he’s a coward. And he’s been trying so hard not to fall all over himself when it comes to his attraction to Bucky that… _Oh_.

Has he been playing his cards too close to the chest? Everything on his end has felt so blatant, but looking back, he didn’t rise to the flirting, he turned down the invitation to go out, he’s been as respectful as possible, and aside from the massage on Halloween — which was more a sensory thing than a sensual one — he hasn’t initiated contact at all. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to kiss Bucky back.

_Get your head out of your ass, Rogers!_

Sam’s right. It’s time to actually say something. Or possibly do something. Except now he has to wait.

 

~~~

 

It’s just past eleven, later than Steve’s usually awake, but the house is _empty_. He’s gotten too used to talking to Bucky after dinner, sometimes watching TV with him, or at least hearing him move around. Now, Steve is all too aware that he’s alone.

So when his phone lets out a buzz, he jumps in surprise, snatches it up, and unlocks it. He has a text, or he _thinks_ it’s a text, because what it says makes no sense: _My hdand is tinglinh_

Steve has never asked about Bucky’s cybernetic arm, and he never volunteers information about it himself, but that sounds...not right. Unless he means the right one, given the state of his typing, which also seems like cause for worry. He replies: _Are you okay? Any pain?_

It’s a good five minutes before there’s a response — five minutes Steve spends first telling himself not to worry, then worrying anyway, and then debating whether or not he’s supposed to phone Bucky directly.

_Hand feels god_

Steve stares at the text, certain that’s not what Bucky means. _Good_ , Bucky corrects a minute later, with a second text.

That sounds better, even if the typing is still problematic. Steve is still worried enough to ask more questions: _Did everything go all right? Everything working okay?_

Again, Bucky’s response takes too long. It really is late for him to be texting from the hospital. _I’d tedt but the heart moniitir would catch me_

Steve shakes his head, at a complete loss. He looks at the keyboard on his phone, trying to figure out what Bucky might have meant to press. “Text?” He _is_ texting, so that can’t be it. Test? Isn’t that what he’s there for? To test his arm? He gives up:   _I don’t understand. Test what?_

Again, after a pause, Bucky answers: _My hand is jusy like he right one. Feels good._

Well, that sounds like a good sign. If he’s feeling like the cybernetic arm is that much a part of him, the doctors must be doing something right. He responds: _Glad to hear it._

Steve’s getting used to the slow rhythm of this conversation. He looks over at the empty fireplace and debates giving it a try, but it’s... almost half past eleven. He shouldn’t keep Bucky awake all night, but he’s strangely reluctant to go to bed.

 _Bet your hands del even brttr,_ is Bucky’s eventual reply, leaving Steve even more baffled.

Then, Bucky sends, _Feel_.

Followed by, _Better wtf typing._

And Steve puts it all together: _Bet your hands feel even better._

His face flushes hot as if the fireplace just roared to life. He looks back over the texts and swallows a curse when he gets the reference to the heart monitor. Is Bucky really coming on to him right now? Shouldn’t he be exhausted or drugged to sleep or...

Oh. Right. This is the hospital equivalent of a drunk dial. Jesus. Steve actually slaps his hand to his face, covering his eyes for a moment. Unless... maybe Bucky’s just groggy and not quite making sense, and he’s thinking about the massage Steve gave him on Halloween.

_Play it safe, Rogers!_

After calling his bluff with the kiss and having it end so disastrously, he’s not about to repeat something like that. He answers: _You’ve already felt my hands on you._

Bucky’s response comes at almost the same time: _The legal one feels llike nothing else you’ve ever felt_

Steve frowns. Legal? Metal, maybe? Or —

And the phone buzzes again: _Unless you ducked s cyborg before_

Steve falls back, deep into the couch, and covers his face with both hands. One, he can’t believe Bucky is texting about this, even if he is drugged up and bored. And two, Steve honestly hadn’t once given that metal hand any thought.

Any fantasy having to do with Bucky has been flesh-based only. Probably because the cybernetic arm seems so much a part of him that Steve doesn’t remember that technically it’s not. He’s touched it before, incidentally, in everyday interactions, but this…

His mind just judders to a halt when it comes to thinking about Bucky’s left hand touching his body. Not because it would be a bad thing; he just doesn’t know how to begin imagining what that would feel like.

Bucky’s insistence that it feels amazing just blows things open in a disturbingly hot way. Jesus. Because it implies that Bucky’s touched himself that way... and wants to touch _him_ that way, and…

 _Fuck_. And now he can’t shut his mind _off_.

And Bucky’s not even going to remember this in the morning. _Shit._

Time to put a stop to this nonsense: _Barnes, go the fuck to sleep._

After two or three tense minutes of Steve _not_ trying to think of the elephant in the room, Bucky answers: _Sir yessir cap Rogers sir_

Steve lets out a shuddering breath as he says, out loud to an empty room, “Oh, fuck you, Bucky Barnes.”

He tosses his phone onto the couch cushion and marches himself directly to the bathroom to take a long, hot shower.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky’s woozy when he walks out into the midday sunlight, mostly because he skipped the hospital’s version of ‘lunch’ — which he’s pretty sure is a violation of the Geneva Conventions for treatment of prisoners of war, because it’s sure as hell not food. He gets into Barton’s Jeep, or tries to; his hip bangs into a plastic tackle box that lets out a chorus of high-pitched sounds.

“What the _fuck?_ ” he shouts, fumbling his sunglasses.

“Easy! It’s okay, babies,” Barton coos, and Bucky finally focuses enough to notice the air holes and tiny paws and little pink noses.

“You —” is as far as he gets. Barton’s done this hospital run lots of times. Sometimes, he provides food in the form of cheeseburgers or extra-large McD’s fries, which are Bucky’s not-so-secret vice. Other times, he brings clean socks, which hospitals never seem to think of, but which are an obsession of Bucky’s ever since spending three weeks in the same fucking pair while somewhere near the border of Turkey. Barton’s never brought _cats_ before.

“Come on, babies,” Barton says, lifting the carrier. “Get in, asshole. I need your help.”

“Whatever you need,” Bucky says thoughtlessly, because that’s how it is with them. One of them needs, the other provides, and they never think twice about it. Bucky gets into the Jeep, forgetting about the cats. Did Barton have a fight with Natasha? Does he need money?

“Good.” As soon as Bucky’s sitting down and buckled in, Barton puts the surprisingly heavy carrier on his lap. “It’s only until tomorrow.”

Bucky gets the sunglasses on as Barton _thumps_ the Jeep over a speed bump. “What’s only until tomorrow?”

“The cats.”

Bucky’s woozy, but he’s not _that_ woozy. At least, he doesn’t think he is. “Your cats have an expiration date?”

“No, asshole. The fumigation.”

It takes Bucky until they’re at the traffic light at the hospital exit to realize _exactly_ what Barton’s implying. “Wait. No —”

“Natasha’s got an overseas conference — a last-minute thing — so I’m crashing at her place, but she’s got this new leather sofa —”

“Wait.”

“I can come by first thing. Maybe even tonight, but they’re _so young_ , and I don’t want them licking the carpet or anything —”

“Barton —”

“So I’m having the carpets shampooed, which probably defeats the purpose —”

_“Clint!”_

That gets him to shut up, because it’s never a first name thing for Bucky. Barton turns the puppy dog eyes on Bucky and says, “It’s just for one night.”

Bucky feels the defeat settling in over him. This man is the only reason Bucky is still breathing, much less has two good arms, even if it’s now a mismatched pair.

Barton knows when he’s won. He beams at Bucky and looks at the box, then taps his finger on a little black paw. “This one’s named after you.”

“You named your cat Bucky?”

“No. Cyborg, you asshole. Bucky’s a stupid name for a cat.”

 

~~~

 

Steve wakes up late after a night of vivid but only half-remembered dreams about steam engines and sleds pulled by huskies. He goes for a run to clear his head and tries to figure out what to say to Bucky when he gets home, especially in light of the text debacle last night.

_Everything is fine, Rogers. He clearly doesn’t hate you._

Coffee happens but no real breakfast. It’s not as fun to make or eat alone. Which reminds him he wants to get to the grocery store to stock up for when Bucky gets home. In the rush to avoid everything before leaving the house, he never told Steve when he’d be back, but odds are good that whenever it happens, lunch food will be appropriate. Steve decides to take the truck in case Bucky texts him and needs a lift.

He spends an hour debating sandwiches or the ready-made rotisserie chicken, and they’ve got pre-made soup and chili, which has got to be better than cans. Around the time he finds himself ordering a half pound of fresh-cut roast beef and asking what goes better with it — cheddar, swiss, or something else — he realizes he’s probably overdoing it.

But just in case, he stops by the pharmacy aisle and picks up ibuprofen, because it’s gentler than anything else, and on the way back to the register he goes through the beauty products aisle. And while he _doesn’t_ stare at the eyeshadow to try and match whatever shade Bucky had worn for Halloween, he also _doesn’t_ debate body oil for a proper massage.

He absolutely doesn’t.

So he’s distracted at the self-checkout and ends up triggering the _Call Attendant_ button three separate times, and somehow the massage oil has found its way into his cart. A part of his mind actually rationalizes a way to blame Sam for this, since it’s his fault Steve sees possibilities in his future, rather than disaster and loneliness.

And Bucky doesn’t text.

Feeling a little disappointed, Steve picks up all the grocery bags with both hands, bumps the truck door closed with his hip, and brings everything up to the porch. He’s got his keys trapped between two fingers, and he gets the door unlocked and opened —

Bucky’s leather jacket is hanging in the foyer. Steve’s heart gives a thump in his chest.

_Focus, Rogers!_

He stops still and listens for any sign of Bucky in the house, then turns around to confirm that Bucky’s bike is still parked out front. He takes the groceries into the kitchen and drops everything on the island to free his hands. He takes out his phone and thinks too long about how to phrase a text that ends up reading: _You home? I’ve got stuff for lunch if you’re hungry._

He catches himself listening for the buzzing alert of Bucky’s phone. No sound, no response. Steve sighs. He’ll put the groceries away and start heating up the chili, and if he doesn’t hear back, he’ll go down and check Bucky’s room, just in case.

 

~~~

 

Over the years, Bucky’s found himself in some pretty fucked-up situations, and that’s not even counting the attacking sheep. There was that extremely hot chick with the coffin and the dog collars who’d ended up occupying most of his leave one summer, ticking off quite a few of his bucket list items all at once. And there was that guy Falsworth introduced him to, the one from the... whatever the fuck the UK equivalent of a Navy SEAL is.

He’s pretty sure, though, that this has just rocketed to the number one spot on the Places Bucky Barnes Never Meant to Be list.

Little death-needles from hell dig into one thigh, and he bites down a yelp as he tries to extract the fuzzball from his jeans. How can something that’s not even two pounds have _that many claws_? It shouldn’t.

There’s another one that’s climbing his chest, again with the claws, and thank God he never got his nipple pierced that time he was taking dares while drunk, because the piercing would be right out. As it is, he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding through his shirt, and he’s going to feel like a complete ass if he has to put a band-aid there.

He ignores the monster chewing on his hair and the one trying to climb his metal arm. _Ha! No traction._ Instead, he reaches out of the bathtub to retrieve Number Five, who’s climbed his boot and fallen behind the toilet.

So much for thinking the bathtub could contain the mayhem.

And Sasha, the ill-named mama cat, is sleepily purring on the counter, as if thrilled to death to _finally_ be out of reach of her children. Bucky never thought he’d be jealous of a cat, but right about now, he’s so tempted to join her, except he _knows_ the little monsters will get out of control, like the one who’s assaulting his loofah.

 _“That’s my —”_ escapes before he can shut his mouth, because he _thinks_ he heard Steve come in a few minutes ago. He wrestles the loofah away from the kitten, or tries to. He just ends up picking the kitten up with it. The kitten climbs the loofah and doesn’t stop when it reaches his hand. It just sinks its claws in, and Bucky has to bite his cheek to keep from giving his best demonstration of Russian swearing.

He separates cat and loofah, then tosses the loofah into the sink. Mama Cat opens one eye and gives him a baleful glare before she goes back to sleep.

That’s it. Bucky’s going to die of kitten overdose. Steve’s going to find his pale, bloodless corpse in the bathtub where he’s died the Death of a Thousand Claws and the kittens have feasted on his body. He survived war and the CIA and even the paperwork involved in a medical retirement from the Army, all for this.

When his phone goes off, he jumps in surprise, and three kittens react in violent protest. Wincing at the claws, he extracts the phone from his pocket and unlocks it.

_You home? I’ve got stuff for lunch if you’re hungry._

The text would make him feel all warm and contented, except for two things. First, it means Steve’s definitely home. And second...

He sees _last night’s texts_.

Oh, fucking _Christ_. He texted Steve. He texted Steve _about his arm_. And Steve’s hands. And _fuck,_ now he really wants the kittens to kill him, because there is no possible way he’ll ever be able to face Steve again.

In a panic, he does what he does best. He flips the phone, pulls off the back, and takes out the battery. He’s reverted to survival mode. He’s thinking of GPS tracking and the noise the phone makes, and he’s _really_ not thinking rationally, because he tosses the battery at Mama Cat and drops the phone itself on the back of the toilet.

Then he sinks to his back in the bathtub, boots on, knees bent, and wonders if he can will himself to death. Of all the fucking days to not have a gun or knife or cyanide capsule on hand...

 

~~~

 

Ten minutes is too little time, and Steve is... _Steve_ , not an overreacting girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever. But twenty minutes is long enough to wait. Bucky was in the hospital, after all. He might be sleeping, sure, but he might also be having a reaction to whatever medication they gave him. And Steve’s got a key to the downstairs apartment.

He can just peek in.

Bucky will most likely hear him coming down the stairs anyway, so it’s not as though Steve’s likely to surprise him. That is, if Bucky’s even home. Better check.

Steve makes sure the burner under the chili is off. Then he takes the stairs down to the basement at a moderate, heavy pace. He listens for only a moment outside the door before calling, not loudly, Bucky’s name. He knocks discreetly, in case Bucky’s sleeping, and when there’s no answer, verbal or otherwise, he unlocks the door.

The room is empty.

“Bucky?”

The room is squared away, the bed neatly made. The only thing out of place is a small gym bag, probably with whatever clothes Bucky had brought to the hospital. The bathroom door is closed, and Steve sees light underneath.

He hears nothing from behind the door, so he approaches, once more calling Bucky’s name. “Hello? You here? Thought I’d check on you when I didn’t get a text...”

For a few seconds, there’s still nothing. It’s sort of a relief that Bucky’s not actively being sick, but the silence is still worrying. Maybe he passed out?

Then Steve hears something — some movement, like a gentle _thump_ —

And all hell breaks loose.

He hears the curtain rings rattle, and something that sounds like a shampoo bottle hits the bottom of the bathtub, and Bucky lets out a loud, perfectly healthy, _“Fuck!”_ that’s about a half-octave too high to be caused only by surprise.

 _He’s hurt,_ Steve realizes, and that’s enough for him to feel above the top of the doorframe for the emergency key. He finds it, sticks it in the doorknob, and throws the door open, praying that there’s no blood.

There isn’t.

Instead, there’s Bucky, sprawled on the bottom of the bathtub, fully clothed and absolutely _covered_ in tiny kittens. The shower curtain rod is pulled down at an angle, and bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and soap are rolling on the floor. A large grey and white cat takes one look at the open bathroom door and bolts for freedom.

Bucky lifts his head enough to stare up at Steve, blue eyes wide, and says, “Uh. This... isn’t what you think.”

What could Steve possibly think, but: _kittens?_

He stares, in a mild state of shock, because there was absolutely no way to anticipate _this_ outcome. He counts at least four, maybe five separate squirmy, fluffy bodies clinging to or attacking various parts of Bucky’s body. There’s a white one in his hair and a grey one hanging onto the sleeve on his left shoulder, unable to get purchase on the metal with its back claws. A black one with a white patch on its chest is perched perfectly on his right knee, licking its paw and rubbing its face. One must be ravaging his fingers because Bucky’s wide-eyed stare is sometimes interrupted by a wince, like slow morse code.

“What…” _How_ and _why_ also go through Steve’s head, but none of them quite articulate his confusion. He steps slowly into the bathroom and sinks to his knees on the bathmat. “Where did _kittens_ come from?” He starts to reach for the one in Bucky’s hair, but is worried it will just end in a lot of pulling and snagging and high-pitched yowling and swearing. “You went to the hospital and came home with kittens?”

“Uh,” Bucky repeats. His head tips slightly to the side because of the kitten-weight tangling itself in his hair, but he seems extraordinarily tolerant of how they’re treating him. “Okay, yeah. That’s horribly accurate, actually.”

“But, why kittens?” Steve takes pity on both Bucky and the white ball of claws and fluff and starts to untangle the two of them from each other, receiving a grateful look from one and needle-stinging scratches and bites from the other.

“Either ’cause Barton wants to get laid or he’s a masochist.” Bucky lets out a relieved breath, and his head falls back against the bottom of the tub. Instantly, a kitten pounces on his throat, and he winces. “Or both. Maybe it’s both.”

A light goes on in Steve’s brain. “Natasha’s only with him for his kittens.” He nods as he removes the little terror from Bucky’s throat. He cocks his head to the side to match the angle of Bucky’s head and meet his gaze. “But, the bathtub?”

“No pets policy. I figure... there’s carpet,” Bucky says weakly. “I’ve kinda fucked this all up, haven’t I?”

Steve just looks helplessly at his stupidly adorable housemate. There’s hair covering half his face from a tussle two of the kittens have gotten in, right by his head. The sound of claws scratching on the porcelain makes both the men wince. Steve reaches out to brush the stray locks out of Bucky’s eyes, and for the first time, he sees a flush rise up Bucky’s cheeks. Suddenly it’s a lot harder to breathe, but a lot easier to think of what to do next.

“Come here.”

Bucky tries to sit up, but he’s outnumbered and possibly outgunned by all the claws. Steve reaches his hand behind Bucky’s neck and helps him to a sitting position, then kisses him fervently on the lips.

Bucky tenses for a moment, and Steve fears for a second that, after all the times he’s thought about this, he’s made the wrong decision. But then Bucky melts into the kiss with a soft, needy groan, opening his mouth slightly for better access to those perfect lips, and the only thought in Steve’s head beyond _wantwantwant_ is _‘Why the fuck did it take me so long to do this?’_


	10. Chapter 10

Of all the situations Bucky’s ever been in, this one was never on his list until right this moment. Steve isn’t screaming at him or throwing him out or even just giving that _I’m disappointed in you, Barnes_ look that Bucky’s seen one too many times from other officers. Of course, Bucky was almost never kissing those officers at the time —

And they’re both retired. Bucky scolds himself, realizing that his brain’s working overtime to rationalize this, because it’s _not possible_. Steve is kissing him, and it’s stolen Bucky’s breath and thoughts and everything else in the world, including the kittens who are doing their level best to maul him.

 _Steve is kissing him_. And when that finally sinks in, Bucky realizes this probably includes implicit permission to return the kiss.

Hell, it might even be _expected_.

He extracts both hands from the kittens who are trying to chew off his fingers and wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Dear God, those shoulders. Bucky’s never been so tempted to use the strength of his cybernetic arm to tear off a shirt as he is at this instant, because any minute now, Steve will come to his senses, and Bucky will lose his chance forever.

He shifts, careful not to crush any furry monsters, and presses up into the kiss as he opens his mouth and licks, trying to coax Steve into doing the same. Steve’s hand goes tight on the back of Bucky’s neck, and God, that’s his tongue lighting fireworks through Bucky’s body. It’s better than Bucky thought, better than he fantasized, because it’s real, and if he has to die right now, he’ll die the happiest man ever.

Or not. Claws dig up his back, and then Steve gives a whole-body flinch that Bucky wouldn’t mind getting him to repeat, without the clothes, because his muscles are absolute perfection. Steve pulls back out of the kiss, though, and he leans over to look behind Bucky. Then he twists away and extracts a kitten from his forearm.

“We, uh, shouldn’t do this in front of the kids,” Bucky says with a faint laugh. He’s not getting nearly enough air for his brain to be working right, and a part of him is still expecting the sword to drop at any moment.

“No, we shouldn’t be doing this in a _bathtub_. But that would require stopping. Which is worse. Come on.” Steve kisses him briefly, then tugs him forward and kisses him again. A little bit of tongue, a hint of teeth on his lip, and that is _far_ too fucking perfect. Carefully, aware that he’s wearing boots, Bucky nudges the kittens out of the way, and Steve must realize what he’s doing. Between the two of them, they clear a space for Bucky to kneel against the side of the tub, but that’s all they manage.

Impatiently, Steve drags Bucky into another kiss, nearly pulling him up off his knees. The curved lip of the tub digs into Bucky’s gut, and the kittens gleefully start climbing his jeans, but Bucky doesn’t care. Steve’s not hinting with his tongue anymore; he’s demanding. Bucky can only give in, kissing and hanging onto Steve’s shoulders for dear life — not that Steve’s about to let him collapse, because those arms are _massive_ and could bench press him. But there are claws digging into Bucky’s side and back, and Steve’s still wearing clothes, and why the _fuck_ are they still in the bathroom?

“Up,” Bucky insists, though it comes out more like a stolen huff of air breathed into the kiss that just goes on. And then, because he’s truly, genuinely terrified of _hurting_ any of the demons that are trying to bleed him dry, he adds, “Kittens.”

Steve makes the most wonderful noise ever, a throaty sort of growl-groan, and he doesn’t stop kissing. He runs his hands over Bucky’s body, extracting kittens and putting each one gently down at the bottom of the tub. Then he breaks the kiss to look over Bucky’s shoulder, and really, how can Bucky be expected to resist that? He nuzzles into Steve’s neck for about half a second before he licks, and that lasts another half-second before Bucky’s got to get his teeth on that perfect skin.

Steve crushes Bucky against his chest. Bucky has one moment of panic and mentally swears never to bite again — and then Steve _lifts_ , and there’s no danger of Bucky crushing a kitten, because he’s in the air and out of the tub and then safely on the bathmat.

“Do that again.” Steve’s mouth is practically inside his ear, and the breath that escapes Bucky might have the hint of a whimper in it.

Between Steve’s arms and his mouth and everything about him, Bucky hardly has a rational thought left, but that’s never stopped him before. He laughs, just a bit wickedly, and deliberately says, “Sir, yes, sir,” before he bites, slow and hard, running his tongue over the solid muscle and hot skin trapped between his teeth.

Steve’s breath leaves him in a hiss that might have been a drawn out _yes_ as he gets a handful of the front of Bucky’s shirt. The moment Bucky lets up on the bite, Steve straight-up drags him out of the bathroom and throws him onto the bed. Barton’s emergency supply bag — canned cat food, a bag of cat treats, and about four hundred plastic balls with bells — goes flying, and the sound is enough to distract them both for a second.

Bucky recovers first. He pushes another six inches up the bed, so only his lower legs are hanging off, and does enough of a stomach crunch that he can pull off his shirt. Every inch of his skin is speckled with claw-spots, and there are more than a few longer scratches, but he’s not going to die. The movement catches Steve’s eyes, and Bucky grins when he sees the avarice on Steve’s usually polite, smiling face.

“That all you got, _sir?_ ” Bucky challenges, throwing the shirt in the direction of the cat toys.

Steve actually growls as he climbs onto the bed and over Bucky’s body, caging him in with his limbs, and grabs his wrists, pinning them to the bed by his head. Then he proceeds to lick each of the scratches on Bucky’s torso and arm and neck, nipping lightly at all the spaces in between. When he’s worked his way up to Bucky’s mouth he licks inside, then kisses and bites his lower lip hard enough to take Bucky’s breath from him.

This is a _brilliant_ first-day-out-of-the-hospital method of recovery, not that Bucky really needs to recover. And Bucky can’t even be pissed that he let Barton pick him up, because without Barton, there wouldn’t be kittens, and without kittens, there wouldn’t be _this_. And _this_ is absolutely perfect, because all of Steve’s polite hesitation and courtesy have gone up in flames. There’s nothing _nice_ about how he’s got Bucky pinned down so that Bucky doesn’t even want to try fighting free. The pressure sensors in Bucky’s cybernetic arm are lighting up in his head like a fucking Christmas tree. Steve’s holding both arms equally tight, as if he knows Bucky _can’t_ fight.

And Steve’s mouth... God, his mouth is every bit as wickedly perfect as Bucky had once fantasized.

By the time Steve stops kissing in favor of just staring down at Bucky, neither of them is breathing too steadily. “Pants,” Bucky manages to gasp out, because he’s always had a pretty good handle on mission-focus. And then, because he’s not too bad with details, either, he adds, “Shoes.”

Steve’s laugh is ragged. He lets go of Bucky’s wrists — which is a fucking shame, really — and braces himself so he can look down at Bucky. There’s a dark, _wanting_ look in his eyes that turns Bucky’s blood to fire, and he can’t resist squirming just a little bit.

Steve looks down, then right, and he shifts so he can run a hand over Bucky’s one and only tattoo. “Howling Commandos?” he asks, and even his _voice_ sounds like he’s ready for sex.

“Later,” Bucky insists. He gets one leg around Steve’s thighs and flexes, pressing their hips together, and he bites his tongue to keep silent just for the pleasure of hearing Steve’s groan. Steve’s eyes close, and he drops heavily to both hands, elbows bending as he goes for Bucky’s mouth —

And gets a face-full of fur as Sasha lands right on Bucky’s chest, between them, purring her brains out.

“Pah!” Steve has to wipe his lips with his fingers, practically licking his hand to get the cat hair from his mouth. “Why the _hell_ do you even have Barton’s cats?”

That’s a discussion for another time. Maybe next year. Or the year after. Bucky reaches over the cat and catches hold of Steve’s wrist. Ignoring the way Sasha turns and tries to get her tail in the way, Bucky pulls Steve’s hand close and takes one finger into his mouth. It’s warm and damp from Steve’s mouth, like a kiss-by-proxy, and Bucky does his damned best to make Steve forget all about the cat and the herd of kittens and that bastard Barton. By the time he gets his tongue down over Steve’s knuckles, Steve’s staring and breathless.

“Get your pants off,” Bucky says when he pulls back. He flicks his tongue over Steve’s fingertip and smirks. “Sir.”

Steve seems frozen in place for a couple of seconds, long enough that Bucky wonders if this time that word actually broke him. Good thing Bucky’s not prone to feeling guilty. And just to drive that point home, he licks the fingertip again and gives Steve his best innocent, harmless look.

That gets him another growl, and Steve’s mouth — his perfect, sweet, almost pristine mouth — curves up in the most wicked smile Bucky’s ever seen. Steve pushes off the bed, stands, and gently lifts Sasha and moves her to the side, where she curls up against Bucky’s pillow. Then Steve looks down at Bucky with absolute confidence and breathtaking authority, and says, “You first, soldier.”

And somehow, Bucky manages to whisper, “Sir, yes, sir.”

 

~~~

 

Steve’s never been one for lazing around much after sex. Then again, Steve’s also never lazed on the floor with an ex-CIA hitman — side-by-side in prone sniper position, no less — whose temporary kittens are chewing on their hands. Bucky’s sprawled flat on his stomach as if expending any amount of effort after their exertions is too much for him. Steve is inclined to agree; he’s been propped up on his elbows long enough that he’s starting to get carpet burn, but one of the kittens ended up falling asleep tucked under his chest, and he doesn’t want to move.

 _Cute_ has always been his weakness.

He pushes up a bit higher and looks over Bucky’s back, admiring the line of his muscles, and catches a glimpse of the colors inked onto his right shoulder. Now that he’s allowed to touch, he has a hard time stopping, so he presses his finger to the visible edge of the tattoo as he says, “Show me?”

Smiling wryly, Bucky leans a couple of inches away, careful not to dislodge the kitten who’s struggling to climb his cybernetic fingers. “It’s stupid,” he says in a low, lazy drawl.

Steve trails his fingertip around the wreath that encircles the design. “It’s you. And it’s gorgeous. How long have you had it?”

Bucky shivers under Steve’s touch. “Got it... a year ago? Almost two?”

The crossed rifles are clearly sniper rifles, and the wolf’s head is tipped back as if howling at the moon. Steve reads aloud the text on banner that hangs below it all: “Howling Commandos.”

“A couple of guys we worked with from time to time. With, uh, the Agency. And the French DGSE, British SAS, a couple of our Special Forces... After our last mission together, we started calling ourselves the Howling Commandos.” He lets out an embarrassed cough and adds, “We _might_ have gotten kicked out of every bar we hit in Paris because we were acting like a pack of rabid wolves. Though if you ever tell anyone that, I’ll deny it.”

“Do all of you have this?” Steve should really stop tracing the tattoo, but instead he leans down, careful not to crush the sleeping kitten under his chest, and brushes his lips over the inked skin.

“Mmm,” Bucky sort-of answers. “But Barton’s an idiot, and Dernier cheated. His is in French.” He drops back onto his stomach so he can look at Steve, and the way he tips his face up is obviously a silent demand for a kiss.

As Steve leans in to supply one, he wonders how long it will take for it to stop feeling miraculous that he can do so. Or that Bucky wants him to.

He has to break the kiss off abruptly because there’s a sudden piercing pain in his finger, and it makes him inhale sharply. “Ow, sorry.”

Bucky lifts his head, then grins at the mostly-black kitten that’s gnawing on Steve’s knuckle. “That one’s named after me, you know,” he says, sounding proud of the little monster. He snuggles close and wraps his arm around Steve’s body.

Steve looks away from the tiny terror to watch Bucky’s face. It’s practically pressed up against his forearm, with eyelids low, eyelashes casting into shadow the blue beneath, a residual hint of pink still flushing his cheeks, an unfocused smile curling his lips. Steve’s never seen anything so beautiful.

And then he has to amend that thought, because Bucky’s gaze shifts to catch his own, and Bucky turns his head slightly without breaking eye contact to press the lightest, sweetest kiss to the back of Steve’s hand. This, from a government-sponsored hitman. Steve leans in to press his nose and lips to the side of Bucky’s head, which muffles his response.

“Your best friend is an idiot. Bucky is a horrible name for a cat.”

Bucky huffs and actually bites Steve’s arm, a sharp little nip that’s nothing compared to the kittens. “The two of you,” he mutters, head-butting Steve’s shoulder. “He said the same fucking thing. Named it Cyborg instead.”

Steve stops petting the kitten and reaches to pet Bucky’s hair instead. “Is there one named Ninja for Natasha then?”

Bucky closes his eyes and pushes up into Steve’s hand, and the comparison to the cats is that much more obvious. “Barton’s even more of an idiot. He named the mama cat Sasha for her, only Sasha’s got nothing to do with Natasha. Named one for you, though. The one with the grey striped tail. Cap.”

Steve furrows his brow without losing his fond smile. “This handsome fella is named Cap?” He’s looking down to the cavern beneath his chest at the one curled asleep. “But, Buck. These cats are old enough to have weaned. That’s six weeks, at least.” He looks back over at Bucky just in time to see him duck his head. His hair’s an even worse disaster now, and it falls over his face in a tangle.

“It was like day one or something,” he mumbles.

“Barton didn’t know I existed…” Bucky’s shaking his head back and forth, still hiding behind his hair. “ _You_ named it?” The shaking turns to nodding. It’s actually a little heart-wrenching to watch. “You stupid, adorable thing. How did it take us ’til _now?_ ”

Bucky sighs and leans heavily on Steve’s arm. His fingers twitch against Steve’s ribs, a little too hard to actually tickle. “You’re too fucking perfect,” he says, still almost mumbling. “Look at you. You shouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

Gently, Steve moves all the kittens out of danger. Bucky pulls his arm back and rolls onto his side as if withdrawing. Before he can do something stupid like stand up and go away, Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s shoulder and pushes until it’s flat against the floor. Then, because Bucky’s the stubborn type, Steve straddles his hips so he can brush the hair curtain aside and cradle Bucky’s face in his hands. He looks down at his — housemate? lover? — _something_ with all the care in him welling up to clog his throat.

“You” — his voice comes out husky — “are the most beautiful thing, and I’ve been so afraid to touch you. Afraid you’d…” He shakes his head, unable to say _reject_ out loud, but that’s the only word in his mind.

“Fucking idiot,” Bucky says softly, closing his eyes. “With everything you’ve done — everything you _are_ — Hell, with everything _I’ve_ done, you still let me stay.” He manages a faint smile and looks back up at Steve, and Steve knows what comes next. The forced, casual laugh. The dismissal. The offer of an escape route for Steve to gracefully get away from a talk that’s suddenly become heavy with meaning.

“Don’t —” And then he catches a glimpse of the hunted look in Bucky’s eyes and knows he can’t force this, or him. He traps Bucky’s hips between his knees and rolls them both over until he’s on his back and Bucky is lying on top of him. Then he relaxes his whole body, leaving himself open and vulnerable. “Buck, I’m not going anywhere. I found my safehouse and settled down to civilian life. I thought I was set. Figured I could get by on my own. And then you moved in, and I realized I don’t have to.” He reaches up to touch Bucky’s face, just a brush of knuckles against his cheek. “Neither do you.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. He glances away, tracking the marauding kittens who are bouncing across the carpet. “I’ve never done this. I hit eighteen the year the Towers came down. I enlisted the next day. Never thought I’d make it long enough to get out.” He looks back at Steve and admits, “I don’t know _how_ to do this.”

Steve can’t help an amused huff. “You think I do? Everything I know about being someone’s housemate I learned from Sam. My love life has been on ice for a _long_ time. Doesn’t matter if you know how. What matters is if you _want_ to.”

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, leaning down to look into Steve’s eyes. “I’m a pain in the ass, Steve. Those terrors” — he nods at the kittens who’ve discovered the toys scattered on the floor — “are more housebroken than I am.”

“Untrue. When you bring home dinner, it’s not bloody and trailing feathers.” Watching Bucky chuckle at that eases some of the tension in Steve’s chest, but only some of it.

“Fucking hell, you just haven’t heard about the sheep yet,” Bucky says with a grin that’s much more relaxed. Before Steve can decide if he wants to ask, Bucky braces his right arm across Steve’s chest and leans down even more, so he’s just inches away. “You really sure you want me?”

“Jesus, Buck. What kind of question is that? Were you not here for the past hour? I want you so bad I haven’t been able to see straight for a month. Longer.” He grabs hold of the hand trailing off his chest. “And not just in my bed. It’s enough to just have you at home here.”

“If I’m staying, it’s not in this fucking basement — at least, not at night.” Bucky kisses Steve twice — first on the mouth, sweetly, and then on the side of his neck, soft enough to send a shiver down Steve’s spine. “Unless you _really_ want me sleeping down here, by myself...”

“Never again.” He turns his head to give Bucky as much of his neck as he wants. “Shouldn’t leave you to your own devices.” He trails his left hand up Bucky’s bare back until he’s holding onto a shoulder blade like a handle. “Dunno what you might get up to.”

Bucky’s laugh takes on a wicked edge. “You think you can take me, sir?” he challenges, nipping Steve’s earlobe.

Apparently, Bucky has no idea how ready Steve is for that exact thing. He checks the vicinity for rogue kittens, then rolls them both back over until he’s on top, pinning Bucky’s hips and wrists to the carpet. Bucky’s breath catches, and he stares up at Steve, wide-eyed.

Steve leans down until his mouth is a hairsbreadth from Bucky’s and whispers softly into it, “Any way you want me to, soldier.”


	11. Chapter 11

It’s raining when Steve pulls up at Sam’s condo, and he’s lucky to find a spot about twenty yards away from the front door. He gets the umbrella from the back seat, more for Sam than for himself, and jogs to Sam’s front door.

Sam’s already waiting. He passes Steve a heavy paper shopping bag, saying, “That’s the hot food. Dessert’s in the cooler.”

“You didn’t have to cook for us,” Steve objects for about the thirtieth time. He stays in the doorway while Sam lifts a cooler and carries it out.

Sam gives Steve a _look_. “Yeah, remember your idea of ‘cooking’ last Thanksgiving, Rogers?”

Courteously, Steve holds the umbrella to keep Sam dry while he’s finding his front door keys. “It was two of us. Turkey sandwiches —”

“Uh huh.” Sam shakes his head. “That right there’s a _real_ turkey, made from my mother’s recipe, which you are _not_ getting.” He pockets his keys and picks up the cooler. “And since Barton probably forgot the cranberry sauce or brought a can of it —”

“Two cans,” Steve confirms.

Sam rolls his eyes as they start walking back to the car. “I made some. Again, homemade. And no, you can’t have that recipe, either.”

Steve smiles and looks down at the bag in his hand, automatically offering his umbrella-holding arm to Sam. When he gets a quizzical look in response, he defends the gesture. “Look, if we’re close and in step, we’ll both stay more dry.”

“Says the man whose boyfriend can kill me from two damn miles away? No thanks, Rogers. I’ll take my chances,” Sam says, grinning the whole time.

“Suit yourself. Can’t say I didn’t offer.” He shuffles his feet to get in step with Sam anyway so they don’t bump elbows too much. “Besides, Bucky wouldn’t shoot you for that.”

“That’s ’cause I’m awesome. I introduced you two, remember? Speaking of which, you never thanked me,” Sam says, elbowing Steve, since he’s holding the cooler with both hands.

“If by ‘introduce’, you mean you sent me one of your charity cases from the VA to get him off your hands, then yes. I do remember. Thanks for that.” Steve makes sure the grin is wide on his face and clear in his voice, though he’s not worried Sam will take offense. “Bucky will figure out how to thank you when he stops being embarrassed about how long it took him to realize you and I are friends.”

“Nah. I told him to stop thanking me a couple years back, when Riley and I got those two troublemakers out of the field.” Sam gives Steve a look and says, “I really didn’t think your boy was gonna make it, you know. Worst case I’ve ever seen, and that includes some guys who didn’t come back.”

Steve stops dead in the rain and then feels bad about it because Sam almost pokes his eye out on the umbrella when it stops moving and he doesn’t. “Sorry, but... _you_ were his rescue? I —” How did he not know this? “Sam...”

“Shit. He didn’t say anything about it?” Sam asks. “He doesn’t avoid talking about it...”

“He’s told me about the injury and the rescue, and he calls you his guardian angel, but I…” Steve feels like an idiot. “I never put it together.” He starts walking again, slower this time. Sam is watching him as they near the truck. “Thank you.”

“Getting his ass out of the field was my job, Steve,” Sam says gently. “Helping him get back on his feet? That’s all on you. You did good.”

Steve can only glance at Sam’s face before he has to look away, because there’s one special expression he has that’s so full of heart, you only need a second of it to help keep you together. Any more and you start coming apart. “Thanks, Sam. It means a lot. Both your words and your actions.”

Sam hangs back while Steve opens the back door of the truck for him. Then he slides the cooler inside, saying, “Be glad I sent you Barnes and not Barton. You’re the closest thing we’ve got to a saint, but even you’ve got your limits.”

Steve shakes his head at the compliment as they climb into the truck. “Barton’s got what he deserves in Natasha. I don’t know how she manages not to kill him. Must be the kittens.”

 

~~~

 

Despite the rain, Natasha is sitting on the porch swing when Steve pulls the truck into the driveway. She’s wrapped up in a warm wool coat and has a glass of wine in one gloved hand. When she smiles and stands to wave at them, Sam lets out a sigh and mutters, “Kittens. Dammit, man. I shoulda thought of that.”

“The way I hear it, you also have to be stupid enough to let her break your nose.” Steve keeps his voice low, even while still in the car, because risking Natasha overhearing feels like a deadly mistake. “Come on. We shouldn’t leave those two alone together for too long.”

The faint smile on Sam’s face slowly melts into a look of horror. “If Natasha’s out here...” He shakes his head. “Oh, shit,” he says, grabbing for the door handle.

Steve hops out and calls over to Natasha, “The house is still standing, I see. How much longer we got?” He reaches for the shopping bag, listening for distressing sounds from inside.

“I dealt with the smoke alarm,” she says in an utterly calm way that sends a chill down Steve’s spine — not out of worry for Bucky’s safety, because cybernetic arm aside, Bucky has a very keen sense of self-preservation. And he’d never abandon any innocents to a disaster. No, it’s the house itself Steve worries about. After all, he spent three days painting the ceilings not six months ago.

Sam circles the truck with the cooler and gives Steve a sympathetic look. “You didn’t read the warning label, did you?”

Steve hops up the front stairs to meet Nat at the door. “They should each wear one that says: ‘Contents will combust when combined’.”

“I know someone who does embroidery,” Nat offers, deadpan. She smiles warmly at Sam, though probably not warmly enough for Sam’s liking, and says, “Hey.” Then she sits back down on the porch swing.

“Hey, Natasha.” He puts down the cooler and leans against the rain-damp railing, making it clear he’s letting Steve handle the emergency on his own.

Steve looks at both of their relaxed stances, then takes a deep breath before he ventures into the house alone to discover whatever crisis has occurred. Immediately he’s hit with the smell of old, stale smoke and a haze in the air. He sets the bag down in the foyer and glances into the living room, where the once-bland carpet and sofas have been turned a uniform grey in a six-foot radius near the fireplace. He can hear his two problem snipers — because Natasha’s made it clear that he gets _both_ of them, in this situation — in the kitchen, arguing in their usual mess of non-English languages. Somewhat ominously, he can also hear the kitchen sink running full-blast.

He takes careful steps and breathes shallowly as he crosses the living room. Through the kitchen archway, he sees the black shirt that Bucky had been wearing before, now turned grey, hanging over the back of a chair. Another shirt is on the floor, also grey, though Steve can just see a hint of purple. Apparently, his snipers have undressed.

_What the hell?_

Even more suspicious now, he walks into the kitchen and stops when he sees the two of them fighting over the use of the dish sprayer. They both look like drowned rats, though Barton’s short haircut survives the dousing much better than Bucky’s long hair. They’re streaked in ash.

_“Stand to, soldiers!”_

The command slices through the chaos like a knife. Bucky lets go of Barton and snaps upright, and Barton drops the dish sprayer, releasing the handle, as he also straightens. It’s ingrained, instinctive, but it’ll wear off in seconds — maybe faster, with Barton.

Steve steps up to the island and pins them with his gaze. He can’t decide which of them is least likely to lie. Depends on whose fault it is, he guesses. “Barton. Report.”

Barton breaks position to shoot Steve a guilty look. “We, uh,” he says carefully, “had a... _thing_ , with the fireplace.”

Bucky lets out a groan and turns away, snatching at a wet dish towel. As he scrubs his face, he mumbles, “A fucking _thing_.”

Steve relaxes his own stance but crosses his arms in front of his chest. “If this ‘thing’ resembled an explosive in any way, I will physically kick you out of here, Barton.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Cap,” Barton protests innocently. His smile is practically angelic. “I used a fan.”

Steve glares at Barton, then looks to Bucky for clarification.

Bucky isn’t trying for innocence. He’s got the kicked puppy look down pat. “Airflow?” he says uncertainly.

Steve refuses to let it work on him, though it’s a struggle. Particularly in the lip region. He looks back at Barton. “Do either of you numbnuts know how a fireplace works?”

Barton grins. “Sure —”

Bucky mutters, “Lying shit.”

“Fire needs _air_ ,” Barton counters. “It made sense.”

“That, _soldiers”_ — Steve is getting better at sarcasm the longer he spends around the two of them — “is what a _flue_ is for.”

“Isn’t that the chimney part?” Bucky asks. Then he preemptively flinches as if thinking he probably shouldn’t have drawn Steve’s attention.

“You” — Steve points at Bucky — “and you” — he points even more emphatically at Barton — “come with me. Now.”

“You can’t kill me,” Barton says at once. “Think of the kittens.”

“Move it. Both of you.” Steve marches them into the living room, through the soot, to the fireplace. He points to the lever built into the corner of the brickwork. It’s pushed to the right.  “This is the control for the flue. And like this, it’s _closed.”_ He pushes it to the left. “Now it’s open, which means air can be drawn up the chimney, thereby —”

“Don’t confuse them, Steve,” Natasha says. He turns, wondering when she’d come back inside, and finds her and Sam standing in the relative safety of the foyer. She’s got Cyborg cuddled in her hands, while Cap is attacking Sam’s shoelaces.

“Yeah, man,” Sam adds, grinning. “Those Army grunts get all confused if you give ’em instructions more than ‘halt’ or ‘shoot’.”

“Wilson, don’t make me ‘debate’ the relative intelligence of the Army over the Air Force with a guy who they had to strap wings onto to get him to fly.” When Steve sees how wide Bucky’s and Barton’s eyes are, he realizes his voice has gotten a little out of control, a little _too_ Captain Rogers, and he takes a breath to let out his frustration. “Guys, it’s simple. To the right, it’s closed. Which it should be when there’s no fire. To the left, it’s open. Which it needs to be if anything is burning in here. Got it?”

“And if Barton touches it again, I’ll shoot him,” Bucky offers hopefully, which has to be the strangest olive branch Steve’s ever been offered.

“Blood on the carpet, idiot,” Barton says.

“I can shoot them both for you,” Natasha offers sweetly.

Steve smiles at the offers. This is how far he’s come with these yahoos. “Just get yourselves cleaned up, and we’ll forget about a fire tonight. The food’s getting cold.” He claps Barton on the shoulder to show no hard feelings, and his eye is drawn to the ink there. As they all move towards the kitchen he can’t help but ask, “Is that your Howling Commandos tattoo, Barton?”

Bucky lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “No, it’s —”

Barton cuts in, “Yeah —”

“ _Katniss_ here can’t —”

“It _is_ ,” Barton insists.

“Aw, it’s okay, pretty girl,” Bucky drawls, and Barton launches a multi-language tirade at him, reminding Steve that he _really_ needs to learn Russian beyond the words Bucky sometimes lets out in bed with him.

But the name — _Katniss_ — jogs something in Steve’s memory. All those commercials that he never bothers watching. The girl with the archery gear. _The Hunger Games?_

And now that it’s in his head, he sees it, because Barton’s tattoo has a bird instead of a howling wolf’s head, and two crossed arrows instead of crossed rifles. The only thing it’s missing is the gold and fire that’s all over those movie posters.

“Oh, I see the resemblance, yeah.” Steve looks up to find Bucky crying with laughter and Barton scowling harder than he’s ever seen anyone scowl. Nat is biting her lip, and Sam is desperately trying not to smile, but failing. Steve blinks and furrows his brow in confusion. “What? It’s a nice tattoo.”

“Very pretty,” Bucky chokes out between laughs. “All the teenagers are getting them, these days.”

Barton glares at them all, then pushes between Bucky and Steve, holding out his hands. “Gimme a kitten, Nat. I need _someone_ who’s not judging me.”

“God, you _all_ need therapy,” Sam declares, picking up the cooler. “Natasha, you mind picking up the food? That’s our dinner, so if Barton gets near it, we’re all gonna starve.”

Natasha relinquishes the little black kitten and picks up the shopping bag. “We’ll get dinner set, Steve. Take Bucky and get cleaned up. And don’t spend too long in the shower, or you’ll miss dessert.”

Bucky grins. “That _is_ —”

“One more word...” Natasha lets the threat trail off.

“Is…?” Steve asks before his brain catches up. Oh.

_Oh. You complete idiot, Rogers._

Because they’ve done _that_ in the shower more than once. Just last night, in fact. And now everyone’s watching as his face heats up hot enough to spontaneously combust. Which he wishes he could do. He looks over at Bucky for help, but the smirk on his face is wicked and makes Steve even more embarrassed. He grabs hold of Bucky’s left shoulder and shoves him down the hall.

“Upstairs, now.”

As they retreat Steve can hear the silence in the kitchen burst into giggles and good-natured jokes delivered with fondness, and he’s able to breathe again. Once they’re at the top of the stairs, Bucky kisses his hot cheek and pulls him into the bathroom.

Steve stops at the door and leans on the frame. “Well, that was awful.”

Bucky is half-naked, a wreck of wet ash and tangled hair, and there’s no possible way he should look so enticing. He wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders, and water seeps through Steve’s shirt, chilling him for a second before Bucky’s body heat warms them both. “Lemme try again, sir,” he says, pushing his hips forward. “I’ll do better this time, I promise.”

Steve has to try very hard to not let his body betray him and give in to Bucky. “It’s time for dinner, and we have _guests_ downstairs. Get in the shower.”

Bucky steps back, dragging his hands over Steve’s shoulders and down his chest. “You should at least watch, Cap,” he teases, toeing off the sneakers he’s started wearing around the house, rather than his boots. It mostly has to do with the fact that Bucky feels _safe_ here, Steve knows, but he’s sure the easy removal factors into it. Bucky undoes his jeans and shoves them down, saying, “Make sure I don’t leave any ash.”

Steve leans in to kiss the smirk on Bucky’s lips, allowing his hands to rest on bare hips for just a moment before he retreats back to the doorway. “Just get that ass downstairs in less than ten minutes, and I’ll do a thorough check later.”

Bucky turns, takes two steps, and leans over — deliberately on display — to turn on the shower. Then he looks over his shoulder at Steve, and his lips turn up in a knowing smirk. And because it’s never _too much_ with him, he adds, “Yes, sir,” in a way that has Steve ruined for proper military interactions for the rest of his life.

“Who thought it was a good idea to have your friends over to the house for a proper holiday dinner? Can’t we just kick Barton out and let Sam and Nat have a quiet meal with the kittens while I fuck you into my mattress for the next two hours?”

The words slip out before Steve can stop himself, and God, Bucky’s been a horrible influence on him. But the words also make Bucky go wide-eyed and silent, staring at Steve with something like awe and very definite lust.

“I have a couple of grenades in my pack,” Bucky finally says in a strangled voice.

“ _Live ones?_ Buck!”

“They’re for emergencies!”

“Those go in the safe the moment everyone leaves. In the shower. Now,” he orders, and escapes the bathroom before Bucky can drag Steve into any more of his bad habits.

 _Grenades_. How did this become his life?

 

~~~

 

The house is quiet, even with two kittens. They’re asleep on the old armchair near the bedroom window — the chair that Steve declared cat-free for all of two minutes before they were aggressively adorable at him, and now it belongs to them. Bucky lives for this moment, when he and Steve are catching their breath, and the window’s cracked open because they both like fresh air even when the weather’s cold, and Bucky can remember that he’s _not_ in the field anymore.

“So, that’s one test passed,” he finally says when his heart stops racing and the tingling through his body has faded. For someone with such a sweet, innocent smile, Steve’s got one hell of an imagination. The last couple of weeks have been a series of wonderful shocks to Bucky’s sensibilities.

“If what we just did felt like a test to you, I might have to start all over again and show you the real thing.”

“Oh, God, again?” Bucky lets out an exaggerated groan and rolls onto his side so he can hide his grin against Steve’s arm. He slides his cybernetic hand over Steve’s heart, and the pressure feedback sensors light up his brain with the rhythm of Steve’s heartbeat. “I’m older than you, Steve. Go easy on me.”

“You have as much stamina as I do. And if it’s easy you want…” Steve pulls Bucky’s left hand to his mouth and kisses the palm, then rolls him over to slowly kiss down his neck and collarbone and chest.

“Fuck. Steve...” Bucky’s breath catches, and he lets his eyes close to better concentrate on what Steve’s doing. “So, that’s a yes then?”

Steve pauses on his way to Bucky’s pelvis only long enough to say, “What am I saying yes to now?”

Steve’s mouth is just making Bucky’s growing nervousness worse, not better. He managed to ignore it all through dinner, mostly because Barton kept trying to sneak turkey to the kittens. Now, though, Bucky suspects he won’t be able to slide this one under Steve’s guard.

“I got a call while you were out picking up Sam. Christmas thing, with — up in Brooklyn. They want you there,” he says, glad that it’s at least too dark for Steve to see his expression.

Steve stops what he’s doing and rests his chin on Bucky’s hip. “Brooklyn... Your family? You’re inviting me to be with your family at Christmas?” Bucky can’t tell if the tone in his voice is simple incredulity or something else.

“They know. That I’m pansexual, I mean. It’s no big deal. My sister wore a tux to prom, with her girlfriend, even though she’s got a boyfriend now. My sister, not the girlfriend.” Bucky shuts his mouth once he realizes he’s babbling, and he thinks that Steve would be one hell of a CIA interrogator, with his innocent, leading questions and sweet, harmless voice.

Steve moves back up Bucky’s body to kiss the corner of his jaw, which reminds him to unclench it. He settles so his own body fits to the line of Bucky’s and speaks low near his ear. “I’m out of practice when it comes to families, but if they want to meet me, and you want me there…” He nuzzles Bucky’s temple before kissing it.

Bucky lets out a breath, feeling something in him go all warm and fuzzy, like one of the damned kittens. It’s an uncomfortably _new_ feeling for him, and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. So he laughs and mutters, “You say that, only you haven’t met them. Three sisters, a bunch of aunts and uncles, all _their_ kids... It’s like a fucking army. And they’re all crazy.”

“Well, if we need to escape at least we’re in Brooklyn. I haven’t been home in a long time.” Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s sternum and rubs his nose ticklishly against the top of Bucky’s shoulder. Then his voice gets real quiet against the sensitive skin. “And maybe we can go to Green-Wood to visit my folks?”

 _Green-Wood_ sticks in Bucky’s mind for a second before he remembers it’s a cemetery. And _fuck_ , Steve’s got no family. Panic seizes Bucky’s voice. How the hell can he surround Steve with about a hundred Barneses when Steve’s _alone_?

“We can stay here, if you’d rather,” he manages to say, wondering what he’s supposed to do. Give Steve space? Offer him a hug? There’s no manual for this — not that Bucky’s ever read, anyway.

Steve’s hand reaches around to grab hold of Bucky’s left shoulder, and he props himself up on his elbow to look closely at Bucky. “You do realize you just offered Christmas with a big family to an orphan, right?” Steve’s voice holds a smile. “You can’t take that back now.”

Relief sweeps through Bucky. He runs his hands up Steve’s arms to cup his face, then sits up enough to kiss him. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, we’ll go wherever you want. Or you can, if you need to go by yourself, or something...” He realizes he’s doing it again, and he mutters, “Fuck. I’m gonna screw this up, Steve. I know I am.”

Steve smirks; Bucky can tell, even in the darkness of the room. “It’s standing in front of a grave, Bucky. There’s no way to screw that up.”

“I say stupid shit. I _do_ stupid shit.” Bucky laughs and shakes his head. “Hospital kittens, Steve. Remember?”

“Somehow, that ended up the most brilliant plan ever. Don’t sell yourself short.” He leans down to touch his nose to Bucky’s.

“Yeah. I guess it did, huh?” Bucky asks, slowly grinning. “That _was_ my plan all along, you know. And this means I don’t have to go face the family alone. I’ve got you for backup.”

“Your plan all along.” Steve huffs in disbelief. “I’m surprised you didn’t just get me in the truck with the excuse of going out to dinner, then drive me all the way to Brooklyn before mentioning it.”

“That was Plan B,” Bucky lies smoothly. “A good sniper’s always got a Plan B.”

Steve huffs in amusement. “Speaking of…” He resumes kissing his way down Bucky’s body, and this time there’s nothing to distract Bucky from the pleasure of Steve’s perfect mouth. 


	12. Chapter 12

After too many Christmases overseas, Bucky’s forgotten the rules of driving in New York — or, in this case, being a passenger. Intermittent snow plus holiday traffic equals stupid fucking idiots on the road, and that means congestion at best, accidents at worst.

Steve’s got the patience of a saint, which is half the reason he’s driving the truck. Bucky had been tense and twitchy when they’d left Maryland six hours ago, because it feels more like six _days_ he’s been in the truck, and he keeps falling back into old stress-behaviors, clenching and unclenching his left hand, looking for ways out of the traffic, checking the night-dark skies for lights. Steve was holding his hand, which helped, right up until the traffic got bad enough that he had to keep shifting gears.

By the time they pull into the alley and then into the backyard, where four other cars are cluttering up the driveway and a patch of the back lawn, it’s after midnight, and Bucky’s about ready to stab anyone who gets in his path.  Steve, though... He must be psychic or something, because as soon as he parks, he grabs Bucky’s left wrist and pulls him across for a kiss that’s strong and quietly demanding and exactly what Bucky needs.

He’s not in this alone. He’s with Steve, and his family’s in the house, and he can do this.

When the kiss breaks, Bucky whispers, “Thanks.”

“Of course.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand before letting go.

They get out of the truck, and Bucky gets his half-full backpack — God knows how many sweaters he’ll get as presents this year — while Steve gets his actual, proper luggage. They each take one bag of presents, purchased last week and wrapped with the help of the kittens, and they head across the winter-dry back lawn.

The back door opens before they reach the cement porch, and a knot of tension lodges up under Bucky’s ribs. He’s seen a couple of his relatives back in the hospital, both before and after he got his new arm, but it hits him just then that he’s going to see _all_ of them, at once.

Again, it’s Steve who comes to the rescue, herding Bucky into the remodeled beige kitchen. His parents redid it just last year — he’d seen pictures on Facebook — and it’s actually easier for him to breathe, because the awful yellow sunflower wallpaper is gone, so it’s not right out of his childhood.

“You must be Steve,” Mom says, and Bucky turns to see his mom, just over five feet tall in her old bathrobe and new-looking fuzzy slippers, pulling Steve down to kiss his cheeks. “Goodness, look at you. Bucky hasn’t sent us pictures. It’s not fair to do this to us without warning, Bucky.”

“Mom,” he groans, feeling all of fifteen.

She laughs dismissively and smiles at Steve. “I’m Winifred, but call me Fred. George is asleep. He was up early to cook for the kids. All the cousins brought their kids, Bucky, so it’s crowded. We had to split up the guests between here and your Aunt Ida’s. She’s just down the street. You boys must be exhausted. Let me show you upstairs. I gave you two Kim’s room.”

Steve is, of course, the perfect gentleman, allowing Mom to take him by the arm and guide him down the hall. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Barnes. Ah, Fred. Thank you for having me.” He glances over his shoulder at Bucky with a fond grin.

No disasters so far. Bucky grins back, takes the bag of presents from Steve, and diverts course at the living room to put the bags near the couch. The Christmas tree is in the front corner, and already it’s got a decided tilt to it, as if one of the kids has been climbing it. The lights are looped unevenly, which means someone — Aunt Ida, probably — has been surreptitiously trying to improve it.

Some things never change.

Figuring the kids will ransack the bags, he doesn’t bother laying out the presents. He catches up on the stairs, skipping the ones that creak, and follows Mom to the first bedroom on the right. Kim’s nineteen and living at college, which means she hasn’t bothered updating her room. Bucky doesn’t recognize a single one of the bands plastered on her walls, though he grins to see the _Wanted: Dead and Alive_ Schrodinger’s cat poster he sent her for her birthday.

“If you need more blankets to sleep on the floor, they’re in the linen closet,” Mom whispers loudly, “but if I know Bucky, you’ll find a way to both fit on the bed.”

Steve smiles in collusion and speaks low, as if Bucky can’t hear. “He is a bit of a compulsive unconscious snuggler, so I don’t worry he’ll fall out.”

 _Oh, God,_ Bucky thinks in horror, staring at Steve. He didn’t just say —

Mom bursts out a laugh that she smothers with both hands, turning her back. Bucky bangs his head gently into the wall and wonders if it’s too late to go down to Coney Island and throw himself off the pier. And poor Steve... He just stands there, looking between them with an adorably confused expression.

“Yeah, um, thanks, Mom,” Bucky finally says. He gives her a quick, awkward hug and a kiss on the cheek, and she laughs against his shoulder and mumbles a quick goodnight before she leaves. Bucky closes the door, feels for a lock that isn’t there, and gives Steve a plaintive look that he hopes clearly says _shoot me now_.

Steve crowds him up against the door and kisses his cheek. “What? She’s wonderful. I —”

“You said... _In front of my mother..._ ”

“Said what? That I don’t worry you’ll…” Steve’s mouth drops open. “But she wouldn’t think…” He looks in horror and helplessness at Bucky. “Would she?”

“Four kids, Steve. _Four_.” Bucky drops his backpack and gets his arms around Steve’s body. “I got the safe sex speech when I was twelve, and it covered _all_ options. I’d say I hope you don’t embarrass too easy, but... I did warn you.”

“You said they were crazy and progressive. I wasn’t ready for… Shit.” He shrugs his shoulders as if resigned to his fate, and Bucky grins. He’s learned that Steve’s like that: naive and awkward sometimes, but incredibly adaptable. “Should I expect innuendos like you aimed at me that first day from all of your family?”

“Only Aunt Ida. Everyone else will respect that you’re mine.” Bucky gives Steve a quick kiss and looks a little longingly at the twin bed. “What do you say we give the bed a try? If I know the monsters, they’ll be up with the dawn.”

Steve’s looking at Bucky a little strangely, but he doesn’t explain. He just smiles, soft and sweet, and says, “Sleep, then.”

 

~~~

 

Steve snaps awake the instant Bucky goes tense in his arms. He feels Bucky’s hand searching under the pillow at the same time he hears the door creak open, and there’s one instant where the world seems surreal. The bed’s too small for one grown man, much less two, which is why he and Bucky have tangled their bodies together, and Steve’s butt is still almost off the edge of the bed. The room’s too bright, the air’s too cold, and dear God, why are there music posters all over the walls?

Memories slot into place in quick succession: Brooklyn. Bucky’s mom. Steve’s foot in his mouth. Bucky’s casual, unconscious declaration that Steve is _his_.

He’s aware his grin is probably sappy, but Bucky’s asleep and can’t see it. “Hey. It’s okay,” he whispers, and Bucky eases back into the pillows. Steve turns and looks at the doorway, expecting to see Bucky’s mom, but he sees nothing. Maybe it was the wind?

Then a head pops into sight beyond the carved footboard. It’s dark-haired and blue-eyed and all too dangerously awake for the hour. Bucky doesn’t react at all. He’s got two modes when he’s sleeping: alert to any hint of danger or dead to the world. And Steve’s presence means Bucky can safely slip back into ‘dead to the world’ mode, leaving Steve to deal with the invader. This has happened more than once with the kittens.

 _“Bucky!”_ the child crows, and scales the footboard better than half the guys in Basic could climb the obstacle course wall. The child lands on the bed, right on their feet. Bucky just lets out a grunt and buries his face against Steve’s chest. “Bucky, Mom said you’re a _robot_ now! I wanna see!” And then, as if only now noticing Steve, the child turns and asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Steve. Who are you?” He disentangles himself reluctantly and nudges Bucky off of his torso so that he can sit on the edge of the bed. Luckily Steve had worn clothes to bed — unlike Bucky, who’s in nothing but boxers.

The child bounce-crawls up the bed. “Rikki, two K’s and an I.”

Steve tentatively decides the child might be female, though he’s not entirely sure. The crawling pulls the blanket down, exposing Bucky’s right shoulder and arm, and Rikki’s eyes go right to the tattoo.

 _“Whoa. Cool.”_ Rikki starts squirming so much that Steve worries Bucky might just wake up.

Searching for a distraction, he asks, “Wanna see something else cool?” He casts about for anything bright and shiny, and his eye lands on a princess fairy wand with a glittery star on top. Worth a shot. He points it out.

“That’s not cool. That’s Kim’s.”

“Well, why don’t you show me something cool that’s yours?”

Rikki’s eyes light up with the thought of something exciting enough to cause an exodus quicker than Steve can get out of the bed. Steve throws his sleeping boyfriend one last glance, then turns to leave. He and Rikki almost collide in the doorway when Rikki rushes back with what looks like an Optimus Prime Transformer, which brings Steve back to his own childhood. He quickly ushers Rikki out and down the stairs to play in the living room so Bucky can sleep in peace.

 

~~~

 

Bucky wakes up drowning in blankets and a too-soft mattress and too few pillows. And no Steve.

“Ugh,” is all he can manage until he makes it to his feet, down the hall to the bathroom, and finally wakes up. And it’s not until he’s back in his room — Kim’s room — and staring into his backpack that he actually _realizes_ Steve is missing.

This, he decides, is suspicious, especially since Steve is entirely unprepared to meet the Barnes family en masse.

In something of a panic, Bucky throws on jeans and a sweater that he hasn’t worn since last Christmas, when it was delivered to him in the hospital. It’s green and thick and itchy as hell, but there’s no time to find an undershirt. He rushes out and down the stairs —

And stops in his tracks.

Steve is sitting on the living room floor in sweats and a rumpled T-shirt, hair sticking up in sleep-mussed spikes, _surrounded_ by children. There are newspapers flattened over the rug, and he’s got what Bucky swears is a watercolor palette balanced on his knee so he can paint...

“Is that —” Bucky begins, staring at his niece, Rikki, who’s now sporting a Howling Commandos tattoo on her bicep. Two more kids have cartoon characters on their arms, and Steve’s working on a fourth kid Bucky honestly can’t recognize, because they grow too quick for pictures to keep up.

Steve glances up at his voice and smiles, his eyes taking a second to focus from how much he was concentrating on his work. “Hey, babe. Sleep okay?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, only to be assaulted by the three not-in-progress children who rush him in a swarm. He’d been braced for the chaos over his cybernetic arm, but that doesn’t make it any less jarring to end up with two kids trying to climb him and one shrieking to show off his lasers.

“Great,” he says weakly over the chaos, wondering where the _hell_ the parents have all gone. They’re probably taking advantage of Steve’s presence to have a few moments of sanity in the dining room. Steve exudes Responsibility and Good Clean Fun and all those qualities that Bucky lacks, meaning Steve is the perfect babysitter.

“Hey, guys!” Steve uses a voice Bucky has never heard, one pitched exactly for kids that sounds like whatever he is about to say is the most interesting thing ever. “I’ve got an idea!” Two out of the three that have attacked Bucky are lured by the voice. The other continues to hang on his arm. “How about we all paint pictures of what kind of robot arm we want? What do you say?” The enthusiasm with which the three already engaged yell their hoorays brings the last one running. Steve spreads out more newspaper, starts handing out paintbrushes, and looks up at Bucky for just long enough to wink and incline his head toward the kitchen mouthing ‘coffee’.

Steve’s a saint. More than a saint. He’s throwing himself in front of an army of small, sugared-up monsters for Bucky. There aren’t words for that sort of self-sacrifice.

And it’s _Steve_. It’s Steve and his smile and his mussed-up hair, and Bucky realizes, in that moment, just how much it all means to him. He’d grown up angry, and he’d gone to war angry, and he’d come home scared, only to bury that fear under more anger. And now, because of _this man_ , he’s just stupidly, ridiculously happy.

Bucky opens his mouth, and only the ear-piercing screams make him stop and breathe and realize what he was about to say. For a few seconds, he stares at Steve, wondering if he should, but no. Not now. Not when Steve’s surrounded by a swarm of Barneslings and Bucky’s not awake and... _No._

So he slinks off for the kitchen, bracing himself for the adult onslaught of questions and sympathies and subtle hints that he’s not capable of carrying a mug to Steve, especially not one of the good ones...

 _Stop buying trouble,_ he tells himself, and looks into the living room one last time, reminding himself that if everything goes to shit, Steve’s got his back. Steve will realize if it all gets to be too much, and he’ll get Bucky out. Bucky’s not alone in this.

 

~~~

The rest of Christmas Eve is an exercise in organized chaos, with the number of people coming in and out, the small horde of kids wreaking havoc either underfoot or in undisclosed locations, and different people’s ideas of how to bring order to the fray all clashing in polite conversations in the kitchen. Food helps, especially when somehow everyone sits down to dinner together, the adults in the dining room, the kids at card tables set up in the living room. Steve is seated next to Aunt Ida and across from Bucky, which actually works out okay, especially because they’re still shoeless from playing on the rug with the kids, and Bucky starts a game of footsie.

The Barneses genuinely _like_ each other — for all the ways families drive each other crazy, their teasing and jokes are mostly delivered with real fondness. Steve’s alternately jealous of it and relieved to be the outsider who always has an excuse to bow out of things. Especially when Fred strongly hints at how nice it would be if he and Bucky went to church with them, and Bucky’s eyes go wide and hunted. Steve pleads exhaustion and offers to stay home and keep an eye on the kids too little to make it through the whole service without a breakdown.

After everyone comes back and even the older kids are put to bed, the adults end up around the lighted tree with glasses of homemade spiked eggnog, which tastes more like whisky than anything noggy. Somehow, Bucky and his sisters end up talking about their high school years.

“At least _I_ wasn’t blond,” Rebecca says out of nowhere. Steve looks over to see who she’s talking to — and it’s _Bucky_ who actually blushes.

“God, not that again,” George mutters.

“He was a _brilliant_ actor,” Fred protests, waving a hand to silence her husband.

Steve turns a you-never-told-me-about-this look on Bucky. “You acted? In a play?” Turning to the rest of the family, he can’t help but say, “I _definitely_ want to hear about this.” He’s learned they’re as good storytellers as Bucky, so he settles into the couch next to Bucky to listen.

Fred gets up from her seat and hands her glass to her husband. “It was his senior year,” she says, heading for the foyer wall. “What play was it?”

Bucky gives everyone a bleak look and pointedly leans forward to pour himself a refill, not even pretending to go for the egg nog.

“Wasn’t it something about punk rock?” Rebecca asks. “Your hair was all spiked.”

“And blond,” Fred agrees, going up two stairs so she can reach a picture hanging high on the wall. Steve gets the impression that its placement, in a patch of darkness, is strategic. “Which one was it, honey?”

Bucky sighs and finishes half his whiskey in one swallow. “Romeo and Juliet.”

“I didn’t know Juliet was blond,” Rebecca says.

“I’m a civilian now. I can shoot you,” Bucky threatens.

“That’s it. He was Mercutio. And don’t threaten your sister. It’s Christmas,” Fred says blandly, bringing the picture over to the sofa.

“I burned that,” Bucky says, trying to snatch it out of her hands.

“I’m not an idiot, dear. I made copies.” She smacks his hand and offers the photograph to Steve.

It’s recognizably Bucky, glaring with all the angsty anger only a teenager can muster. Fred is leaning over him, and she’s got a hold of what looks like a chain collar around his neck. And his hair is...

God, it’s not just blond. It’s blond and dark at the roots and spiked up in every possible direction, worse than anything that’s ever happened to him on the back of Steve’s motorcycle.

“You look like Sid Vicious with Johnny Rotten’s hair.” Steve looks up to see mostly blank faces. Only Bucky manages a laugh. “The Sex Pistols? Never Mind the Boll—?” He changes tack. “You did Shakespeare?”

“Two plays in a row.” Bucky’s expression takes on a sharp edge. That’s all the warning Steve gets before Bucky says, “I got kicked out of drama for talking Romeo and Juliet into a threesome.”

Steve knows his jaw has dropped to the floor, but his brain has gone offline at the sheer unadulterated _want_ that image sparks in him. And then he remembers he’s close to moaning aloud in front of Bucky’s parents.

Bucky grins at them all with almost-believable innocence. “What? It was onstage. It was part of the play. We were improvising.”

“And ended up in detention for a month,” George reminds him.

“It was still brilliant,” Fred said, giving Steve a smile. “He could have been a wonderful actor.”

Bucky shrugs. “I was better at detention.”

Steve nudges Bucky’s shoulder with his own, his voice coming out a little awed. “You improvised iambic pentameter. ‘Brilliant’ doesn’t quite cut it.”

Bucky just shrugs again, but while his parents descend into an argument that’s got the feel of well-worn ground, Steve notices the way Bucky’s smiling. And when he catches Bucky’s eye, the smile brightens even more, and he silently mouths, _“Thanks.”_

 

~~~

 

The cemetery’s quiet. It’s afternoon on Christmas Day, and after the morning's frenzy of present opening, that's a welcome change. It’s drizzling just hard enough to be inconvenient without really requiring an umbrella. The grass has gone yellow and crunchy, and most of the trees are bare, but there are small stands of pine trees to break up the landscape with flashes of deep green. Steve sniffs the air and savors how alive it smells.

“I should’ve brought something nice to wear,” Bucky mutters as he follows Steve away from the parking lot. He’s been subdued since this morning, with an overwhelmed, almost hunted look. No surprise. Though Bucky’s family is incredibly accepting of their stray sniper bringing home a boyfriend for Christmas, Steve’s caught a few things that he knows don’t sit well with Bucky, like offers to carry things or open jars, as if his cybernetic arm isn’t even there.

Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s left arm and hangs onto it as he guides them towards the Rogers family plot. He knows the sensors under the metal can feel the pressure, so he hugs it a little tighter for just a second. “That new sweater _is_ nice. The color brings out your eyes. And you brought them a holly wreath, so they won’t turn you away.” He catches Bucky’s eye and smiles, which gets him a faint, stressed smile in return.

“At least it’s quiet here,” Bucky says, but Steve knows he doesn’t mean that it’s peaceful. Bucky’s looking around a little too sharply, eyeing monuments that are big enough to hide a person or stands of trees that could hold an enemy. They’ve lost some ground, coming back to Brooklyn, but it’s not as bad as it could have been. Bucky’s been away from his family for over ten years now, and two young kittens aren’t nearly enough to prepare anyone for the chaos back at Bucky’s family home. They’d been doing well enough for the past month that Steve’s forgotten how to fix this.

 _Come on, Rogers. Grounding, food, water, quiet_.

Steve knows Bucky’s not touch-starved anymore, but physical grounding still works to bring him back. He throws his arm around Bucky’s right shoulder and hugs him from behind. “I liked the noise at your house. It was cheerful.”

When Bucky doesn’t answer, Steve tries to get him to walk the last few steps up to the headstone as they are, back to front, with legs in sync. It’s too awkward, and Bucky gets more tense, not more relaxed, which is the opposite of Steve’s intent. He stops instead of letting go, and he presses his face to a neck that shouldn’t be exposed.

“Hey! Where’s your scarf? How did you get out of wearing your scarf?”

Bucky’s laugh is more of a huff, but Steve’s willing to take even a small victory. “I have skills, Cap,” he says, which is a potentially bad sign, him falling back on informal distance like that. He looks over his shoulder and adds, “You look like a target with that.”

Steve turns Bucky around so they’re face-to-face and rubs his gloved hands up and down leather-clad arms. He looks his lover seriously in the eyes and says, “I look beautiful in this scarf. Rikki said so.”

“You look like a unicorn barfed on you,” Bucky says, and though his voice is sharp, it’s not cutting, and he manages a faint smile.

It’s something. Steve is drained by the incessant need for attention that only kids can ask for and the sheer number of people he’s been around for the past day and half. The two of them haven’t had much time alone together when they aren’t passed out. They both should have eaten before leaving the house.

“I bet you’d like to feel beautiful too. Here.” He takes off the rainbow scarf Bucky’s mom gave him — PFLAG parent, clearly — and winds it snug around Bucky’s throat. He grabs hold of the base of Bucky’s neck where it meets his shoulders, and with both hands he squeezes the tense muscles as he brings their foreheads together. “You are gorgeous.” He kisses those pouty lips briefly, still clutching his hands tight to try and relieve some tension.

Bucky relaxes into the kiss, just a little. Then he buries his face against Steve’s neck and puts his hands on Steve’s hips, thumbs working up under his jacket and down into his waistband. He’s not going for bare skin; he’s clutching the fabric tightly, as if hanging onto Steve for dear life.

“Last Christmas, I was still in the hospital,” he mutters. “I didn’t — I didn’t think it’d be like this.”

Steve lets go so he can wrap his arms around Bucky’s body and hold him close. His mouth is right by Bucky’s ear and he whispers his question. “Like what, babe?”

“Maybe too much.” Bucky’s exhale is sharp, and Steve feels how he goes tense. “Fuck. I just want to go _home_.”

“Whatever you need, Buck, just let me put the wreath on the grave and we can go back…” But Bucky tenses even more, and only then, as he’s feeling that familiar body prepare to pull away, does Steve realize what Bucky means.

 _Their_ home.

Something quietly, hugely joyful fills Steve like a hot air balloon, and he takes a deep breath to contain it. It’s something worth holding on to. It's unexpected and fits in a way he didn't ever think possible, like the best kind of present.

“...Then we can grab our stuff and say our goodbyes and get home in time to eat dinner in front of the fireplace.”

“Yeah, great. Me, running from my fucking family,” Bucky says, and though the words are full of anger, the way his body relaxes against Steve’s speaks volumes of what’s really going on inside him. “It’s _Christmas_ , not a fucking covert op.”

“If we need a cover story to tell your parents, we can say something’s happened with the cats, or a water pipe burst at the house. But I’d like to think being with Cy and Cappy and me in our house is you heading _to_ family.”

This time, Bucky’s tension is all in his hands, clenching almost uncomfortably tight around Steve’s waistband. Then he lets go to put his arms around Steve and pulls him even closer, nearly stealing the breath from his lungs. He doesn’t say anything right away, and Steve starts trying to think of what might make this better, when Bucky finally drags in a breath.

“Did I _not_ fuck this up?” he whispers. “Really?”

Steve just blinks for a second, because that’s the furthest thing from his mind. He wouldn’t have been able to articulate it until a moment ago, but there’s nothing he wants more than to spend Christmas with Bucky and the kittens. They’re done with any family obligations, and it’s time to go home. “Really. Bucky Barnes, I think you just saved Christmas.”

“Oh, _fuck you,_ Cap,” Bucky drawls, pulling back. Steve almost thinks he went too far, but Bucky jabs his shoulder with a left-handed punch, not hard enough to sting, and even if Bucky isn’t smiling, his eyes are bright, no longer tense and shadowed. “Fucking drama queen. I _should_ sic my sisters on you, for that cheesy line.”

All wide-eyed innocence, Steve replies, “But I _meant_ it. Seriously. I love your family — they’re really wonderful people — but I’m having orphan overload. Dinner with you and the cats. That’s all I want for Christmas.”

Bucky steps back against Steve, sliding one arm around his waist, and turns so they’re facing the gravestone. “Think that they’d be okay with this?”

Steve thinks about his mom. His dad died when he was young, but she’d loved his dad fiercely, and the memories Steve has are tinged with her stories of him. Steve's mom was his anchor, and she taught him what love and family and home meant. He’d signed up to serve in ’01 to honor her death in the Towers, but whatever he’s been building in that narrow little house outside DC feels like it’s honoring her life.

“Yeah, Buck.” His voice scratches in his full throat. “I think they would.”

Bucky nods, turning as he does, so he can rest his head on Steve’s shoulder. “D’you think... Would you be okay telling my parents, while I wait in the truck? Otherwise they’re going to think it’s them and start apologizing and shit.”

Steve reaches up and strokes Bucky’s hair, the base of his thumb brushing down the side of Bucky’s jaw. “Yeah, sure. What story should I use?”

“Fuck it all,” Bucky mutters, leaning against Steve’s body. There’s no tension in him now, and he turns to press a kiss to Steve’s throat as he adds, “Tell them you’re taking me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's family names are taken from http://marvel.wikia.com/James_Buchanan_Barnes_(Earth-616)
> 
> Any similarities to names in Harry Potter are entirely Marvel's fault (or Rowling's, since Marvel was probably there first!)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with us! Your kudos and comments have been amazing. We're so glad you've all enjoyed reading this story as much as we loved writing it.
> 
> Recs are always appreciated. This is a huge fandom, and we can only reach a little corner of it. :)
> 
> We have outtakes in this 'verse tucked away in the bunny pen, and we have other collaborations in the works. For now, stop by Tumblr and say hi:
> 
> rayvanfox is at [zooeyscigar.tumblr.com](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com)
> 
> Kryptaria is at [kryptaria.tumblr.com](http://kryptaria.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Критическая масса кошачьих](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877257) by [faith_fatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faith_fatal/pseuds/faith_fatal)




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